Legolas Thranduillion's 30-Day Character Transformation
by Araloth the Random
Summary: Legolas and Aragorn decide there are more noble ways to help the fanfiction OCs that keep dropping into Minas Tirith other than killing the poor things off - which is their usual way of dealing with the problem - and send out an ad complete with hashtags. Of course, they have no idea what they're in for...
1. Legolas' Wonderful Idea

**Hi everyone! I'm Ara and I write a lot of LotR parodies. :)**

 **I'm still plotting out what kinds of misadventures I'm going to put poor Legolas and Aragorn through this time but it has certainly been fun to write so far!**

 **Being a parody, this fic is rather silly but no offence is intended.**

 **Enjoy and please drop a review when you get to the end!**

* * *

 **Legolas' Wonderful Idea**

"LEGGYYYYYYYYY—AAAAGHHH!" screamed the young woman, whose enthusiastic bounding across the field towards her favourite blond Elf had been arrested by the fact that said Elf now had a nocked arrow pointing at her.

In her version of things, Jada was meant to have been espied by Legolas standing upon a hill outside of Minas Tirith, singing and letting her long dark curls fly about her in the wind. And Legolas being instantly enamoured was to stand about until she noticed him and came flying into his arms.

So this whole thing with Legolas aiming a projectile weapon at her wasn't meant to happen.

As a result she had no idea what to do and in a fit of confusion started running backwards.

Bored, Legolas released the arrow with a _twang_ and she crumpled in a heap to the ground.

Someone slammed against his back and he staggered. It was Aragorn, sword drawn, who was busy ramming a sword through a Sue virtually indistinguishable from the first.

"Legolas, do you—do you ever get tired of this?" the King huffed, ignoring the Sue squirming on the other end of Andúril. "All this pointless slaughter?"

"No." Legolas glanced down as the Sue slid off the sword and flopped lifeless to the soft earth. His eyes met that of his friend's, and Aragorn was certain that the guilt that shone there was reflected in his own. "Although it does seem a bit…out-of-character."

Aragorn wiped sticky blood from his forehead with the back of his hand. Glancing at it, he frowned at the glittery bits that shone amid the red and realised that in the light the blood seemed to have a bright pink sheen to it. Why did these things always bleed irregular colours? "When I ascended to the High Kingship, I knew that a life of ease would not be my portion," he said regretfully, wiping his hand against his tunic. "Yet I little knew that killing off these nuisances would form so much a part of my service to the united realms. I honestly thought my hunting days were come to an end. Whence do they come, anyway?"

"I believe," answered Legolas flatly, "that, like the Balrogs, they were spawn of Angband who somehow managed to escape the justice of the Valar."

"They are not quite _that_ evil." Crouching to the ground, he began cleaning the blood from his sword. Even the grass seemed to be trying to run from the taint, parting in the wind and making it very difficult for Aragorn to get the pink residue off. "Legolas, _mellon nin_ , I tire of putting the legendary sword of my forefathers, the very one that first despoiled the Dark Lord of his power, to such unholy uses as the gutting of these Merry Soup people."

"Mary Sues," corrected Legolas, though the foreign word felt strange upon his tongue. "There must be some way of delegating the responsibility. You are High King, Faramir a Prince of Ithilien." He waved an arm expansively. "You cannot be expected to dash out the door every time a girl falls into Middle-Earth, or Queen Arwen's long-lost twin sister enters the city unbidden, or some daughter of Denethor who has been lurking somewhere in the tombs since the War ended suddenly makes an appearance."

"You are right, of course," sighed Aragorn as he rose to his feet. "Do you have any ideas?"

Legolas suddenly brightened. "As a matter of fact, I do," he said, stepping over one of the corpses to turn and face Aragorn. "What if we could actually _do_ something with these girls?"

"Aside from sending them south and inflicting them on the Haradrim?" said Aragorn doubtfully. "I fear such a move would not be good for our trade agreement."

"No, no – I seek not to ruin your trade agreement! What I mean is that – what if we could help them somehow?" They turned towards the ancient city and set off across the fields. "What if we could put our own knowledge to more noble purpose? Lessen the chances of their doing something dreadful by ensuring that they have no chance to wreak havoc?"

"I do not know that there is any operable dungeon in Minas Tirith that could contain them."

" _Ai_ , no!" Legolas sighed in frustration, evidently struggling to articulate his thoughts. "A training program of sorts. Lessons in – I know not. How to be less annoying."

"You mean character development?" asked Aragorn, frowning as Legolas bent to pluck the arrow out of a stray body lying about on the Pelennor. There were plenty of fletchers in Minas Tirith and Ithilien but Legolas was always careful to retrieve his arrows wherever possible.

"Yes! And something that will teach them how to adapt to life in Middle-Earth." With a slight _squelch_ the arrow came free and Legolas waved it emphatically. "How to live happily without the need to entice the nearest Elf to propose, that wielding a sword is not as easy as it looks, why one does not simply walk into Mordor—"

"I believe you're onto something," said the High King slowly, scratching at his stubble in thought. "I would certainly rather accommodate these people somehow than have to keep brutally murdering them. I do have concerns about where they will all go, though."

"We could put them in a reserve?" suggested Legolas cheerfully. "If they all get along, all is well. If they kill each other, then we will have solved the problem with very little effort." His eyes twinkled.

Aragorn raised an eyebrow. "So much for nobility." They reached the gates of the ancient Tower of Guard and the heavily repaired doors yawned open to greet them.

OoO

It was decided later that evening, despite Aragorn's protestations that Legolas would have enough on his hands managing Ithilien alongside Faramir, that Legolas would be the one to trial the training program.

"I am perfectly able to manage," Legolas insisted for the tenth time. "I am well aware of the challenges involved. If not I, then who else? Besides," he added, "it'll be fun!"

Aragorn sighed. "Very well. But you must at least allow me to take some of the burden of instruction upon myself. I will not have you doing everything yourself."

Legolas gave him an affectionate smile. "Ever you seek to look after the interests of others, even at your own expense."

"And you," answered Aragorn, smiling back, "will wear yourself out doing much the same thing." He looked pensively out the window into the night. "I think I shall speak with Gimli – perhaps he would be interested in helping."

Stretching and rising from his seat, Legolas replied, "My dear friend has been muttering through his beard about how bored he is for months. He will not be long in the persuading."

OoO

By arts which not even Legolas himself understood, he spread the message that very night. Hidden in a heavy chest was a small round object of a dark, glassy material whose origins had long been forgotten. It was an Eighth Palantír he had confiscated off some young man who had claimed he was Gandalf's brother.

This the Elf eagerly removed from its box and held up a piece of parchment in front of it, across which was written in flowing Tengwar the following cheery advertisement (and which, unbeknownst to him, translated rather badly in his efforts to use idiomatic speech):

 **Are you truly satisfied with being the most beautiful and talented and angst-ridden damsel/gentleman in the world? Do you wish to gain more out of your experience upon the shores of Ennor? Learn how to get your pickle out of a rut with my 30-day program!**

 **You will learn valuable lessons such as:**

 **What it's really like to camp out in the wild**

 **Why your magical powers cannot exist in Middle-Earth**

 **How to subsist on maggoty bread for more than three stinking days**

 **And so much more!**

 **You only get out what you put your best foot in. So sign up today and start your journey to being a normal and less dislikeable character!**

 **#elfhelp**

 **#walkingintomordor**

 **#nomakeup**

And it did not take long for the first responses to start coming in.


	2. Then There Were Three

**Thanks for the comments, guys! I'm glad that you're enjoying it so far. :D**

 **Anonymous review replies:**

 **Guest:** I will certainly be writing more – this chapter here be proof. :D Thank you for reviewing!

 **Aitchtee:** I'm pleased you're enjoying it so far! I figure our poor canon characters are fed up with the Sues too – they're going to be in for an interesting time. Thanks for reviewing!

 **Amateur Bacon Cook:** Your PMs aren't turned on so I'll have to reply here! It only occurred to me shortly after posting that it might come off as OFUM-ish, but I didn't even think of it while I was writing! And yes, one of the greatest things about parody is that not everything needs to make sense. :P I'm glad that you're enjoying it so far despite parodies no longer doing it for you and hope that you stick around. :)

OoO

 **Then There Were Three**

The first response went by the name of Lórieniella, and she arrived with the rising sun and a smirk on her face upon the fields of Pelennor, clutching her parchment print-out of Legolas' advertisement.

Being the little-known daughter of Galadriel, her hair was long and golden, and her voice deep yet musical. Her bright blue eyes twinkled from her delicate, serious face and enchanted all who looked upon her. Curvy yet slender at the same time, she was perfection itself, clad in a white dress woven by Elven-craft and bejewelled in a rather impractical manner (there were bits of grass and burrs sticking to the bottom where it had been caught several times by inconveniently spikey bushes).

And she had come to join the Fellowship in whatever remained of their quest to destroy the coming darkness.

Legolas was an early riser and was already up and wandering the battlements when Lórieniella arrived. With her dazzling smile and an improbable trail of woodland animals following in her wake, she was remarkably visible from where he stood. Surprised but pleased that the message had spread so swiftly, Legolas grinned happily and turned back towards one of the Citadel buildings – out of which his best Dwarven friend was currently emerging with a yawn.

"Gimli!" cried the Elf excitedly. "Already there has been one to answer the summons!"

The Dwarf rubbed his eyes. "Summons, laddie? That was an advertisement, not a call to arms." Under his breath he muttered, "And thank Mahal for that. The last thing Middle-Earth needs is an army of those things."

"Away with your mutterings, _mellon nin_!" bellowed Legolas by way of answer. "Are you not excited? Long have we listened to you complain of _fëa_ -eating boredom and now you have an answer."

Gimli summoned a weak smile in the face of his friend's enthusiasm. Boredom was one thing. Attempting what would eventually amount to his being Legolas' grouchy bodyguard was another. He could not banish the uninspiring thought of having to keep at bay the crowd of girls wanting pieces of Legolas' clothing and young men wanting to battle him in a desperate attempt to assert their dominance (though some of them, for all he knew, might have preferred to join the girls).

"Are ye not even the smallest bit worried?" was what Gimli said out loud. "You _know_ what most of these things are like. Some of them have a bit of good sense, and others are just…" He shook his head. "Do ye really want to end up married to one, like you did that one time?"

"This one might not be a Sue," said Legolas defensively, colouring slightly at the mention of the incident. "She might just be confused."

Gimli peered over the walls. "Princeling, unless my sight deceives me, she has a trail of fifty rabbits and assorted badgers dancing behind her."

"She might be from my homeland! Or from Lórien." As he lithely strode away he called over his shoulder, "I must tell the King! Stabling—er, accommodation must be found for her!"

Gimli trudged after Legolas' lithely retreating form, wondering where Aragorn would find the room to fit half a forest's worth of squirrels.

OoO

Of course, Lórieniella was not the only one who had heard the news. Her arrival was followed within minutes by another one – this time from modern Earth.

The former jumped and glanced down in mild surprise as a rather pixie-like girl materialised in a cloud of glitter, sending a few of her random animal companions skittering in fright. The girl lost her balance, tripped over a squirrel and tumbled to the ground.

Galadriel's supposed daughter watched as the new arrival rose dazedly to her feet, the strange thick black rims that sat on her nose askew. "Where in the name of Zooey Deschanel am I?" Her eyes goggled crazily from behind the rims as she gazed past Lórieniella at the ancient stone city that loomed behind. "Oh, like Rivendell or something!"

Lórieniella narrowed her eyes a little. "And who might you be?"

"I'm Wren Aurah Minnie Delilah Daisy!" answered the girl cheerfully, flipping her wavy brown hair over her shoulder. With her quirky name, vintage skirt and patterned stockings, a modern denizen of Earth could have easily identified her as the sort who really cared where her coffee beans came from. "I'm soooo excited to meet all the Narnia characters! What about you?"

"I," she answered haughtily, "am the daughter of Galadriel."

Wren seemed unfazed. "Oh, okay. How did you find out about the program? I found it on Palantr last night. Not that I go on there that often," she added quickly. "Way too much mainstream humour. It's bad for my stomach."

"What are you talking about?" demanded Lórieniella, shooting a withering glare at a frolicking rabbit who kept hopping over her toes.

"My favourite band of all time," continued Wren, happily ignoring her, "completely helps me out with all that gut-healing. I can even eat gluten when I'm listening to _What The Hell Did You Put In My Hamburger_."

There was little doubt in Lórieniella's mind that Legolas would infinitely prefer her own intelligence, elegance and charm to this girl's utter lack of any of those things. "I know not what gluten is," she said coldly, looking down her nose, "nor how you managed to mangle the pronunciation of _palantír_ so atrociously, but neither will help you here. If you wish to win the attention of the Prince of Mirkwood, I am afraid that you have already lost." And a beam of sunlight fell upon her perfect form, which sparkled with the Elven enchantments which into her dress were woven.

Annoyance sparked in Wren Aurah Minnie Delilah Daisy's green eyes and the beam of sunlight flickered out and reappeared over her in challenge. With a suppressed indrawn breath Lórieniella belatedly realised that she had a rival. For while Wren's hair was bushy, it sat perfectly even as it flowed about her dramatically in a non-existent wind. Her large jade eyes, framed by long lashes, held the perfect (and incongruous) combination of tireless cheer, peace, mystery and love of gluten-free tortilla nachos shining behind the glass frames. And she had just the right amount of quirk for her to quietly but completely draw an unsuspecting Elf out of Lórieniella's clutches.

"Um, I'm sorry to tell you," said Wren, fake sweetness suffusing her tones, "but I think you've kinda misunderstood what this whole thing's about. It's not about you getting with Legolas. It's about _me_ getting with Legolas after he compares my manic pixie awesomeness with your unoriginality and general tediousness."

Lórieniella blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Yeah. That whole maiden-in-a-flowing-white-dress thing? Totally overdone. And totally a rip-off of Galadriel. Oh yeah, I've seen the movies," Wren added as Lórieniella's face contorted with anger.

"Of course I look like her, I am her daughter, you dolt!" hissed the Elf-maiden.

Wren opened her mouth to respond but her voice was drowned out as sudden thunder rumbled overhead. Scudding swiftly across the sky, dark clouds obscured the sun. Distracted, both young women glanced at one another and towards the horizon, wondering much at the abrupt shift in the weather.

Across the fields of Pelennor another guest made her arrival known. Out of the East she came, bringing the clouds with her, borne majestically upon the shoulders of a particularly ugly Troll. Dark was her hair, and purple her eyes, and within them was the dark of the Void.

Yet deeper still was a wound, a hurt that could only be healed by love.

Preferably the love of a strong and good-looking ex-Fellowship member.

Morfëa the Dark-Souled was, of course, the daughter of Sauron.

"Children, children," she sighed, sliding from her Troll with enviable grace. "You really must learn to keep it down. Your juvenile arguing can be heard all the way from Lake Núrnen."

Terrified into silence by the presence of her living mode of transport – who was snuffling and grunting with the effort it had taken to carry her from the ruins of Barad-dûr – Wren and Lórieniella said nothing. Morfëa noted their discomfort with relish and smirked. "I see you have noticed my Troll. His name is Unggh. A present from my late father." She gave his tough-skinned grey arm an affectionate pat.

Out of the gate of Minas Tirith a small company came marching. Tall and serious and grey-eyed, the Gondorian soldiers made their way over to escort them into the city, headed by Iorlas.

As the company approached, one of them – a young man of no more than twenty summers – leaned over and whispered, "How does Lord Legolas plan to account for the Troll? Surely the King will have some objection to housing that thing within his walls."

Iorlas sighed. "When it comes to his strange Elven friend our King is most indulgent."

"Have you ever met one of these…fanfiction creatures?" asked Angrenir curiously.

"A few times. Apparently there are those beyond even the influence of the Valar who are able to create beings of their own and send them to Middle-Earth. They are not all bad," he added, at Angrenir's horrified look. "Some of them are simply confused and in need of help, and that is why King Elessar and Lord Legolas have ceased hunting them."

"Noble, to be sure, but is it wise?"

Irolas frowned a little. "I think it is not for us to decide what the Lords of Gondor can and cannot do with their own affairs. Their deeds so far have indeed proven wise. And we, at least, will not have much to do with the affair if it all goes to Mordor." He smiled.

Angrenir glanced doubtfully at the three young ladies as they came to a halt before them. All three had started instantly combing their hair and singing softly to themselves for no discernible reason. He had never seen their like before and the hazy cloud of glitter shining around them was somewhat unnerving to look upon.

"I convey greetings from the High King of the Reunited Realms, and from the Lords of Gondor and Ithilien," spoke Iorlas in formal salutation.

The pretty one with the black rims around her eyes gave a sudden squeal of delight that pierced the morning air. Not a few of the men jumped. "They're speaking all old-fashioned! This is _so_ cool!"

"Silence!" hissed the elegant Elvish woman, before turning and flashing a blinding smile in the general direction of the men.

"Er," said Iorlas, feeling slightly dazed, "I am sure the King will be pleased that his hospitality is—"

"Where will we house my animals?" demanded the white-clad Elf woman.

The dark-haired, purple-eyed lady glanced down at the group of twittering, scampering woodland creatures disdainfully. With a nasty _kzzach!_ she aimed a jet of fire at a squirrel and narrowly missed. "Perhaps Unggh will be able to find room for them in his stomach?"

Elf-Lady rounded on Dark-Hair, hands on hips. "And perhaps one of the Lords might find it more convenient to cast your hideous – thing – from the walls and feed it to my birds!"

At this the Troll looked like he might cry.

Iorlas frowned. "If you will all cease this arguing and come this way, I am certain that the King will be able to find suitable housing for all concerned."

"But—" said Elf-Lady.

"But—" said Dark-Hair.

"I need coffee!" said Black Eye Rims.

"Quiet!" thundered Iorlas, at which all three fell silent. Pinching the bridge of his nose before resuming, he said, "You will follow us. And if I hear a word out of any of you, I shall inform Lord Legolas that his guests are in sore need of entertainment and he will find errands for you to run."

"You cannot do that!" exclaimed Dark-Hair angrily, setting a random tree on fire. "We are his guests! He will not treat his guests as mere servants!"

"Lord Legolas has been well-known to involve his friends in many things out of pure enthusiasm," said Iorlas drily. "None of you is likely to prove an exception. And given the fate that awaited your kind until but recently, I feel compelled to remind you that you have nothing of which to complain."

Dark-Hair sneered but said nothing.

Gathering them together, Iorlas' company marched the young women into the city, and most of them by this point shared the silent thought that what Lord Legolas was planning to do would be nothing short of a miracle.

They sent a messenger ahead, and the lad burst into the Citadel just as the Elven prince in question was finishing his breakfast. Several lords, ladies and other officials glanced up in surprise as he stumbled towards Legolas and gave a hasty bow.

"My Lord!" he wheezed (the task of taking a horse up all seven levels and racing around the Citadel having taken its toll even on a healthy fifteen-year-old). "My Lord, by word of Iorlas, you now have care of three guests, and all are now awaiting your orders concerning their lodgings within the Citadel."

"Excellent!" exclaimed Legolas happily, leaping up from table. "I will be with them shortly."

With that he left the hall and allowed the tiniest beginning of a wicked smirk twitch upon his lips.

Magnanimous Legolas might have been in offering his help, but there was no way in Udûn that he was willing to make himself easy bait. What, having them all gathered right where they could swamp him every time he wanted to retire for the night or use the privy? The poor things were much mistaken if they expected lodgings in the Citadel.

Besides, he thought as the grin spread across his face, the exercise would do them good.

* * *

 **Fun fact:** Here in Australia we have no squirrels!

Any stereotypical OCs you'd like to see? Feel free to share ideas! :)


	3. Greatly Disappointed Expectations

A/N: Thank you ever so much for the reviews and ideas, guys! Keep it coming. :D

A quick reminder: If anything is out-of-canon (or doesn't particularly make sense) in this fic, it's because it's a parody. If you want to see me write canon-accurate Tolkien, read some of my more serious fics. :P

 **Anonymous review replies:**

 **okeydokeyworld:** Thank you for reviewing! I'm pleased that this is one OC story you can stomach. :P

 **Amateur Bacon Cook** : Behold, I address yonder nitpicks! I know Legolas wouldn't know any Quenya, but as this is a parody I've taken creative license (all my other fics are almost fastidiously correct when it comes to language details!). I'm re-reading RotK and the difference between movie!Gimli and book!Gimli is quite jarring, isn't it? I guess I'm using movie!Gimli's speech just because he's more familiar to most people in that form – but as I'm playing around with characterisation he'll probably end up being an odd little Dwarven amalgamation.

And the Sues you've suggested are two of the ones who most grate on my nerves. Nggrrh. They will be included in future chapters, methinks. Thank you for reviewing!

 **EGGS** : I think the one you might be referring to is the Anti-Sue – she's so full of flaws that she's just as unrealistic as a perfect one! I'm glad you like it so far. :)

OoO

 **Greatly Disappointed Expectations**

Morfëa was not a particularly forgiving person, especially with all that tainted Sauron blood running through her veins.

Still, she might nearly have forgiven Legolas for putting her up with the fancy Galadriel rip-off and the girl with the odd dietary requirements if it hadn't been for the fact that their lodgings were situated in the second-lowest level of the White City. If she were to get anywhere near Legolas, Aragorn or anyone worth being near she would have to climb five whole levels. On foot.

A wad of papers had mysteriously slid under the door while the supposed daughter of Sauron sat sulking on the bed, and they were marked here and there with tears that smudged the ink.

Curious despite her irritation, Morfëa rose and picked them up, her purple brocade gown rustling as she did so. She recognised the bundle and surmised that they were Iridianna's backstory (Morfëa had one of her own, written in Black Speech). Apparently this was a getting-to-know-each-other exercise. Amid many sullen looks, she and the others had swapped backstories after a personal message had been sent from Lord Legolas (she gave a happy inward sigh at the thought of him) encouraging them all to start getting acquainted.

" _You're a disgrace!" hissed Iridianna's mother, eyes flashing angrily. "How dare you not be normal!"_

 _Iridianna's warm brown eyes filled with tears. "But—"_

 _"Go to your room! And don't you dare come out until you learn how not to be a freak!"_

 _Anger clouded Iridianna's vision as her hands balled into fists and she shouted, "But I'm never going to be normal! WHY CAN'T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT?" And she left her mother in open-mouthed shock as she ran to her room and slammed the door, finally giving vent to her sadness as a single tear rolled down her fair face, landing on the floor and soaking into the carpet, making a blotch in the shape of a cheese with holes in it._

 _Quietly Iridianna sat on her bed, knees drawn up, and escaped to a land far away, a land that existed only in books but which she wished with all her heart were real – Middle-Earth._

 _She gazed out the window at the street, at all the people going about their ordinary lives. A pigeon pooped on the window pane and she knew in that moment that she was destined for something more. This life was not for her. Somehow she had to find her true destiny, even if it meant freeing herself from everything she knew._

 _With her long, fine brown hair sweeping over her shoulders and delicate features, many at school mistook Iridianna for being small and weak – not knowing that she was kind and good and generous and unselfish, but inside she was mithril. And she always liked her friends' selfies on Instagram, even the bad ones._

 _Why could no one see that just because she was different didn't mean that she was worth any less?_

Morfëa frowned. This girl had no reason to be upset about her parents – _she_ had _Sauron_ for a father.

She looked over her own pile of papers and wondered if she would be able to tweak a few details. There was no way this upstart of a girl was going to out-angst her.

OoO

The Council Chamber was a grand affair, built of stone like everything else in Gondor, with high pillars and sweeping arches. Light streamed cheerily through the windows from the East upon the convened forms of King Elessar's High Council, plus the King of Rohan.

Currently that chamber was echoing with uproarious laughter as Lord Legolas solemnly read from the thick sheaf of papers that comprised Iridianna Lockwood's story.

"A tear drop—the shape—of a cheese!" gasped Éomer-King in a decidedly un-regal manner, clutching his side and almost crying. "I think I require more ale."

"I do hope that her insides are not literally mithril," chuckled Aragorn as Gimli filled a tankard and pushed it across the polished table. "That sounds as though it might be slightly painful."

Faramir sat back in his chair with a smile, saying nothing. The Lady Éowyn seated beside him nodded curiously in the direction of another pile of papers, written on parchment in an elegant hand. "Whose is that?"

"Lórieniella's," replied Legolas. "She is another daughter of Galadriel."

"I have had so many long-lost aunts surface over the years that I have lost track of them all," mused Arwen. She stared past Legolas pensively. "What is an Instagram?"

Before any in the hall could answer that question, a messenger sent from the Houses of Healing appeared at the doors and bowed. The brown apron he wore over his grey healer's robes set him apart as a newly-admitted novice, who had most likely been assigned the tedious task of chopping herbs all morning. Evidently he had not expected to find himself talking to the High King today.

The young man cleared his throat nervously. "Your Highness, I…" he began, before his hesitant gaze dropped to his feet and he trailed off uncertainly.

"You have a message for me?" prompted the High King gently.

"Erm, y—yes," stammered the apprentice, "but I am afraid that you will think someone in the Houses is making a mockery of Your Highness."

"If that is the case, you must leave dealing with the perpetrator to me," answered Aragorn with a smile. "Speak, and we will judge for ourselves whether it is mockery or no."

The apprentice opened his mouth hesitantly before words came tumbling out. "Um, there is a maiden who claims she is dying of the Black Breath and requires the healing hands of the King."

An astonished silence followed his outrageous words. A stifled giggle to Aragorn's right indicated the Queen's amusement, expertly smothered as he turned and found Arwen's face to be a perfect mask of Elven neutrality. Éowyn murmured something to Faramir that distinctly sounded like, "But he's dead! Merry and I made sure of it!" The eyes of Éomer-King beneath untamed blond eyebrows were unreadable. The poor apprentice fidgeted as he looked from face to face, evidently trying to discern whether a job loss was in his doom.

Suddenly Legolas gave a merry laugh. "Well, we all knew this was bound to transpire sooner or later!" he said, clapping a surprised Aragorn on the back. "Our first attempt at Love At First Sight. I do not think that such an endeavour should go unrewarded."

"I am slightly concerned that you say this without a hint of irony," said Éomer flatly as he watched Legolas rise and finish the last of his ale. The Elf put his tankard down.

"Your concern does you credit, _mellon nin_ , but I would not have you worry. It is Aragorn she wishes to see – my magnificent face and a character assessment she will have instead."

The apprentice hardly heard all this as his face all but twitched into a nervous smile. "Am I not dismissed then?"

"Of course not!" exclaimed Legolas cheerfully, striding across the chamber towards him. "In fact, I commend your courage. Allow me to retrieve some materials from my room and then I will accompany you."

As the heavy wooden doors slammed to and the echoing footsteps faded away, the others looked at one another and at the papers on the table in silence. After a moment Éomer-King cleared his throat and leaned across the table.

"I am aware that we may do ourselves some damage, but…" He held up a pile of papers. "Who wants to read?"

OoO

 _Tears prickled Iridianna's brown eyes as she thought of all the things that had gone wrong today. Her maths teacher had told her off in front of the entire class for substituting x and y for Elvish symbols in Algebra._

 _"You're not normal enough to do maths!" the teacher had hissed in a fury._

 _She had been bullied – again – for her ears, which were pointed freakishly beneath her hair, which she always wore down to hide them. Echoes of horrible names and raucous laughter reverberated down the halls of memory in her head._

 _All she really wanted to do was sing. But of course, her mother had crushed her dreams from the outset, and she never sang for anyone in case they made fun of her. She wouldn't say that she was super talented, but she liked music and wanted the chance to show it to the world someday._

 _But that would never happen._

 _Sobbing, she sat with her head against her knees and let the tears fall freely._

 _Far away in Valinor, the Lord and Lady of the Valar heard her unspoken prayers as they watched her with sad eyes. Varda turned to Manwë and sighed._

 _"She is a good and beautiful young woman, but she has suffered so much in this world."_

 _"I agree," answered Manwë. "No one should have to go through what she has gone through. Her destiny is with another world. And she is of another kind, though she knows it not." He turned serious eyes towards she whom the Elves call Elbereth. "It is time. Bring forth the portkey."_

 _And in modern Earth, little did Iridianna Lockwood notice that in the spot where her tear had fallen, a mushroom had sprung up. From the magical purple fungus a power radiated in visible curls of what looked like golden smoke._

 _Her wish was going to be granted._

Iridianna Lockwood was meant to have arrived in time to tell the Lady Galadriel her tale of woe. At last she would be told the truth: that she was an Elf, hidden at birth when the Elven tribe to which her parents belonged had been assailed by Orcs and forced to seek refuge beneath the boughs of fair Lothlórien. And when the Fellowship arrived, she would instantly bond with all of them and they would want to protect her, believing that her best safety lay with them. One night she would sing the _Lament for Gandalf_ to herself against the eerie soundscape of the Eldar harmonising in the trees, and Aragorn would awaken from sleep, having never heard such a beautiful voice…

What Iridianna did not expect upon arriving in Middle-Earth was to end up running from a Troll and then be arrested for destroying a stable.

Literally falling into Middle-Earth had its consequences and a plunge out of the sky (accompanied by a lot of screaming) had quickly taught Iridianna that the first one was a lot of bruises.

The stable was currently empty of horses because the Troll belonging to the daughter of Sauron needed housing, and there was nowhere else to put him. Now left on his own, separated from his mistress, surrounded by all this straw and no one to play with, Unggh was feeling rather at a loss as to what to do with his time.

A splintering crash sounded from above. Startled, Unggh stared wide-eyed at the shower of wooden beams and hay and dust as Iridianna smashed through the stable roof.

Now, Unggh's cognitive processes were limited – he was a Troll, after all – and between carrying Morfëa about and pulling ugly faces at her enemies he found himself most of the time rather too tired to bother with the process of thinking.

Yet all this free time on his hands seemed to be shaking some cobwebs from the operations office of his dusty noggin and, drawn by curiosity, he found himself rising and slowly thumping over to where Iridianna lay sprawled amid the wreckage.

Through the dust motes sent swirling in the sunlight that beamed through the ruined roof Unggh saw that she was fair, and not at all dressed like his mistress. The thought of clothes made him give a snuffle of disdain. If his mistress had not scolded him about it he certainly wouldn't be wearing this loincloth thing. He leaned over and the pungent scent of flowers and sunshine accosted his nostrils. He coughed and stumbled backwards.

The rush of air as Unggh flapped his big grey hand trying to clear the air woke Iridianna and she sat bolt upright, eye twitching. Something musty and foul, like the stench of compost buried in a boys' locker room, accosted her delicate sense of smell - right before she found herself staring up into the nostrils of the ugliest thing she had seen in her life (next to her maths teacher).

"Aaaaaghhhh!" she shrieked, scrambling backwards over the wreckage.

"OOOAAAAOOOOORRRRRHHHHGGGGGHHH!" Unggh roared back, half out of fright and half because he thought she was challenging him to a yelling match (which was not uncommon among Troll-kind). Bits of his last meal and spit flew out and spattered Iridianna's fair visage.

Unable to speak, Iridianna stood gobsmacked during the sludgy onslaught. Her next instinct spluttered in indignation and told her to run, and she wasted no time in trying. She scrambled over the wreckage, shrieking, and bolted down the other end of the stable. The door was open by a crack; in her haste she threw it open and ran.

Unggh thundered after her and crashed through it, leaving a nice Troll-sized hole in the wall.

The general confusion and the fact that there was no good reason for someone to be clambering about on the roof of a stable resulted in Iridianna's being arrested for wanton destruction of property. One of the guards had pointed out that she might be one of Lord Legolas' latest projects but since none of them had been told where to send such arrivals, holding her in custody seemed the logical thing to do at the time.

When a message was finally sent from the heads of the Citadel Guard that any travellers with mysterious powers or Elven good looks or who arrived in unorthodox fashion were to be conveyed to a certain inn, she was discharged and sent to the Houses of Healing. While others were sent to subdue Unggh, the old and wizened herb-master had been sitting with Iridianna for the last two hours, enlivening the morning with a long etymological spiel on the _galenas_ plant and just now beginning an exposé on his theory about the healing properties of Troll spit.

None of which Iridianna had been expecting.

And so when the doors of her room burst open and in strode not her true love Aragorn but the Elf she was meant to have had a brief fling with before her epiphany, Iridianna's spirits fell with the knowledge that her claim of Nazgûl-induced illness had gone unheeded.

Yet she had to get his story back on track. She would not let this setback spoil her adventures. Immediately Iridianna reverted to her default perfection setting, letting her hair fall like a river of chestnut about her on the pillow. Almost imperceptibly she shifted slightly to take advantage of the sunlight to highlight all her best features and add an air of sweetness and profound sadness, which would prompt Legolas to inquire about her past – and that would give her an excuse to enchant the Houses of Healing with a song from her world.

(Legolas, for his part, noticed that the bruises flowering on her arms from her fall through the stable roof were literally in the shape of flowers – a detail which made him stifle a laugh. What had her creator been thinking?)

She opened her mouth to begin her tale of woe in rhyming couplets but Legolas sat down at an old and shoddy-looking table nearby, the sunlight catching his own hair rather distractingly. He ran a hand through it, heedless of the effect it was having on Iridianna's heart rate.

"I am sorry for the untimeliness of this request, but an assessment of your condition must be conducted if we are to have you up and about." Producing a piece of parchment he gave an apologetic smile, revealing dimples. "Will you allow me to ask you a few questions?"

Iridianna nodded, wondering why he was not declaring his love for her, as he was supposed to be doing.

"According to our records, you have an angst-filled past. Is that correct?" He glanced up.

"Yes," whispered Iridianna, thinking of the horrible day when she had found a lettuce in her locker, placed there by her enemies in mockery of her beauty.

Legolas went to dip his quill into the inkwell, frowning when he evidently realised that there was no inkwell available and settled for making a scratch with his quill against some dark Elvish lettering. He muttered to himself as he made a few more scratches. "Teenaged, check. Ethereally beautiful even when wounded, check… Long hair…Long _description_ of hair…Joins the Fellowship…Elf-blooded…Hobbits adopt her as part of the family…Establishes casual relationship with—" He stopped abruptly and his face coloured slightly. "Well. At least it is not both of us at once. I suppose you can sing, too?"

"Well, it's not very good…" said Iridianna, dropping her gaze. Legolas glanced back at his paper again and she quickly added, "But I'm happy to let you hear some, if you want."

Before he could object, Iridianna closed her eyes and passionately launched into a folk song from her world:

" _I CAME IN LIKE A WREEEEECKING BALL!_

 _I never hit so hard in—"_

"Er, yes! Thank you!" interrupted Legolas, a little hurriedly. The sound of her voice was probably too much for him, potently weaving its way through his spirit like a drunk around a nightclub.

At the thought she blushed a little. Her voice was nothing special, of course, though the few people she had been comfortable singing around said that she sang beautifully.

"You do not happen to have an unusual item of purported Elvish make on your person, do you?" he asked, his voice cutting through her thoughts. "Any rings? Stones? Staves? Buckets? We did have one young man insist on carrying an Elven bucket around with him once. I can only hope it was a parody."

"No," answered Iridianna sadly. Then she brightened. "Although I do have an Elvish tattoo on my—"

"Thank you, Iridianna," Legolas interrupted again, smoothly rising to his feet. As his leanly-muscled legs carried him across the room, she looked up into his eyes, wondering if she would find love glimmering in their sea-blue depths and knowing that, sooner or later, she would have to confess amid much drama that her true love was Aragorn. Instead, she flinched as he dropped a heavy pair of boots onto the bed.

Confusion clouded her features. "What are these for?" she asked, a crease appearing between her perfectly-shaped eyebrows.

"For your training, of course," Legolas replied, eyes sparkling. "We're going on a camping trip!"

"But where?"

Legolas paused at the door, his voice casual. "Mordor."

* * *

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	4. Legolas' First Lesson

Thank you so much for the reviews!

The original version of this chapter ended up being too long and I decided to split it into two separate parts. That means that hopefully you'll get another chapter soon after this one, right after I finish editing it. Please enjoy! :)

 **Anonymous review replies**

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OoO

 **Legolas' First Lesson**

" _HEEYYYYYY! LET'S GET THIS PARTY STARTED!" roared Taylah._

" _OMGWTFBBQ!" yelled Angel._

" _WE'RE SO RANDOM!" shouted Farrah, brandishing a Sharpie and drawing a moustache on a Gondorian vase._

 _Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli laughed at their antics. There was such joy radiating from these strange girls – enough to touch the hearts of even the most stoic soldiers. Many cracked smiles at seeing them running about the place playing pranks with Merry and Pippin, or challenging soldiers to drinking games – which, of course, they won every time._

The real Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli, however, were currently staring down a group of girls who had burst into the Council Chamber uninvited, twittering and batting their eyelashes and flipping their hair and creating quite a cacophony.

Leaning on his axe, fingers twitching, Gimli watched them in silence. None could discern his thoughts, but a good look at his twitching fingers and the fact that he had his axe with him suggested the he might be willing to risk his friendship with Legolas to bring silence to the chamber.

"I cannot deal with this," sighed Aragorn, rubbing his eyes with a tired hand as the sounds of chattering and giggling teenagers buzzed in the background. He turned to the Elf at his side, who appeared to be in some pain. "Legolas, I thought you said that today was the day you had scheduled a field trip? By which I assume you meant that there was to be a trip somewhere in a field and not in the Citadel?"

Legolas' usually happy smile had turned into a grimace of pain. Gritting his teeth against the noise (which was offending his sensitive Elven hearing), Legolas ground out crossly, "Allow me a moment to summon my Valar-bestowed powers and magically whisk them out of the city."

The doors behind them exploded open and in strode an irate King of Rohan. Éomer's blond hair was nearly standing on end. Seizing a halberd from a surprised guard outside the door he hurled it across the chamber. Screaming, girls skittered out of its path as it embedded itself with a loud _thunk_ into the doors at the other end.

Silence fell. A girl ran madly into the still-shivering wooden handle and crumpled to the floor.

"What in the name of Béma's Steed do you think you are doing?" he roared with a voice well-accustomed to marshalling soldiers, echoing around the high stone arches and wooden beams of the chamber. Then, in quieter but no less deadly tones, "Do you honestly think that grown men find your childish larking entertaining? We do not find your inability to speak single sentences without making at least one obscure reference to your world in the least bit amusing." He glanced at Legolas, whose ears were still ringing. "I am sorry if you were planning on addressing this topic later," he said apologetically.

Legolas sighed and shook his head. "No, indeed – now is as good a time as any." Recovering himself, he turned to face the stunned girls. "You will all sit." His voice was steel. "Now."

Several perfectly-shaped perky bottoms quickly dropped to the floor. (No one sang out _Hey Baby_ afterwards.)

Legolas allowed a moment of silence while his eyes, carefully devoid of emotion, surveyed the assembled gaggle of fangirls. "I do believe your current lodgings are all located at _The Whittled Wench_. With the exception of perhaps one or two of you—" He nodded at a purple-haired emo named Ashlee Assassination from 2007 whose story he had only just received this morning. "—you have been instructed to remain at the tavern to attend the theory component of this course."

The girl named Farrah, slightly bolder than the others, innocently blinked heavily mascaraed eyes. "But—"

"So," continued Legolas, uncharacteristically solemn, "unless you have very good reason for entering the Citadel – none of which includes wreaking uninvited havoc or scrawling upon ancient stoneware – you will remain within the second circle of the city. There are markets aplenty, and all of you have been given an allowance that will endure as long as your stay, so you may…go forth and do whatever it is you adolescent Mortals do with your time and money, within reason."

"But we're having fun!" whined Farrah petulantly. "We're young, it's what we do! All you stuffy people sooo need to lighten up! We're staying in-character!"

"And that is precisely the problem!" Legolas folded his arms. "While you stay in-character, many others around you become much-altered shadows of their true selves. Young ladies who are far too young to be attempting a courtship with a full-grown Man or Elf and who are immature enough to play pranks during a time of war do not earn our respect, let alone our affections.

"And consider this," he added as he paced back and forth, his voice full of reproach, "while you are busy destroying a city full of beauty and ancient memory, two brave young Hobbits are climbing their weary way to doom – pursued by hunger, thirst and danger at every turn. The land is hot and dry, the road is long, and twisted brambles half their size wind about the roadside, seeking to harm any who pass.

"Overhead fly the Wraiths, who send unnatural terror before them, and all about is the ever-present threat of being discovered by hate-filled, battle-bred Orcs. Frodo is ever tormented by frightening visions, the likes of which no Hobbit has ever borne, carrying with him the Ring imbued with dark sorcery, his spirit weighed down with despair; his faithful friend Sam stands by, tormented by the desire to help and not being able to. And then there—what is the matter?"

For in place of sullen silence the sounds of sniffling and sobbing were tearing the air. Legolas blinked. Several girls were openly crying and swiping their noses along their sleeves in surprising imitation of real human teenagers.

Quietly, Aragorn turned to one of the guards. "Send for Iorlas. Have him and his guard escort them to _The Whittled Wench_."

"Very good, Your Highness." After bowing he strode away with purpose to do his lord's bidding, though he wrinkled his nose at the mention of the suspiciously-named inn.

Next to Legolas the Éomer chuckled as the High King left the room to do some work elsewhere where it was quiet. "Never in all the time I have known you have I believed you a maker of speeches. You surprise me."

Legolas shrugged and smiled a little. "Of the Eldar am I descended, from those who first spoke with voices and awoke the eldest trees into speech when all the world was new beneath the starlight. Talking is a skill of mine."

OoO

 _The Whittled Wench_ was a tavern whose admittedly dubious name raised a few eyebrows when Lord Legolas decided that it would be a suitable place for housing his guests. Nevertheless, it was not even in a particularly seedy area of Minas Tirith – not that there were too many seedy areas there anyway. A seedy area in the White City would be a nice park for feeding the ducks in Mordor.

Erchon felt as though he were polishing the bar for the fiftieth time that morning. Most of those who were staying in his tavern were too young to be much interested in his ale, but they ate more than the proverbial Halfling – and made twice as much mess. Well aware that his face must have borne its grumpiest expression as he stomped between the common area and the storeroom, he took care to scowl ferociously at any ridiculously beautiful girl who tittered past or at any chain-mail-clad young man who looked as though he had Doom written all over him.

It was true that he was being paid well by the High King to humour his strange Elven friend's latest whims but he wasn't entirely sure it compensated for the lack of sleep. That, or the horrible garbled screaming that some of the guests tried to pass off as singing late at the windows at night. Hymns to Legolas, apparently. The last one had gone something like this:

" _Oh how I love thee, Leggy Poo_

 _With thy heart true_

 _With thine eyes so blue_

 _And thine teeth made straight without orthodontics_

 _How I wish I could share thine toothpaste!"_

And then there was the girl who had nearly fallen out of the window the other night, yowling that she had to _stay high, aaaaall the time! To keep you off my mind! Whoa oh ohaohoa!_ (That one was admittedly catchy.)

Nevertheless if any of them kept this up, Erchon might have to write to Lord Legolas and have him persuade the High King to provide the funds for them to hire a healer and turn the tavern into a surgery. Or at least provide some sort of Elvish rune-work about the doors to keep the noise to a minimum – that way he and his workers could get some sleep. The poor apprentices of the man who owned the forge at the back were all bleary-eyed from lying awake all night listening to various young ladies sending horribly tuneless melodies about their favourite Elf screeching up into the night.

 _I hope he hears every one of them_ , Erchon thought sourly as he tossed a towel into the corner.

Trudging footsteps sounded outside and his eyes drifted towards the door. In came more teenage girls - a whole troop of them - in more of that foreign garb, some with hair dyed the most atrocious colours. Behind them was a harassed-looking Captain Iorlas with some young guards – including his own son, Angrenir. The sight of him in his uniform made Erchon almost begin to smile, until the newcomers began squealing and racing upstairs.

 _No one_ did that to Erchon's freshly-mopped floors.

"HEY!" He stomped to the bannister, leaning over and bellowing up at them. "Back down here, _now_!"

Startled, they all came flapping down like a flock of glittery geese. "And just how do you think you will get into a room with no key?" he barked. "Stand in line and you will receive your key and your room-mate assignments! I will have no disorder in my tavern!"

Quietly, so that Erchon couldn't hear, Iorlas leaned over and said to Angrenir, "Are you quite certain that your father would not like to join the Guard? He might well be able to spare my voice another twenty years of wear."

The young soldier grinned. "I think Father will have enough on his hands with this lot."

OoO

Whether it was by mere coincidence, or whether she truly did have the ability to sense her true love in the near vicinity, Iridianna knew that today was the day she was going to meet Aragorn – and she was right.

With a good deal of effort she managed to struggle her way out of bed and poke her head out into the hall, black dots swimming before her eyes and all sound strangely muffled in her ears.

From what she knew of her random Googling back at home, that was usually a good indication that she was about to faint.

If she could just get far enough up the corridor and somewhere that Aragorn was likely to be, she might be able to hold it off for just long enough to delicately drop into his arms and be romantically carried back to bed.

She staggered out of the Houses of Healing, vision tunnelling rapidly. _Damn it._ What fainting actually felt like was something which she had never felt the need to reflect on, but the experience was swiftly becoming an unpleasant one as she tried to hold onto the walls reeling about her. Not anywhere near as fun as she had thought it would be.

In fact, it was really bad. She couldn't hear properly, everything looked like someone had thrown a sepia-toned Instagram filter over her surroundings, and she could feel her insides slowly churning.

Footsteps sounded to her left as she reached an intersection in the corridors. She turned, head spinning – and if her stomach were not already leaping with nausea her heart would have leapt for joy.

Instinctively she stumbled out into a beam of sunlight coming through one of the high windows and slanting into the wide hallway she found herself in. Holding the back of her hand to her forehead, she made a melodramatic noise and cried out, "Help! I'm about to faint!"

The passing King had not seen her – but at her cry for help he turned in surprise, and seeing the maiden start collapsing he dashed up the hall to catch her. He caught her by her wrists and she gazed up at him blearily.

"Are you alright?" he asked, concerned.

Iridianna was really feeling sick now – she gripped onto his arms in an attempt to keep herself upright, but found herself slowly sinking to the floor, right there in that perfect beam of sunlight. She opened her mouth, about to say something in Sindarin about her gratitude towards his kindness, followed by an Entish poem of her own composition just to remind him of her ability with tongues.

The contents of her stomach arose swift and sour, all over her dress, all over the wall and all over Aragorn's booted feet, and as her vision finally darkened she passed out in it face-down.

OoO

Will Legolas indeed hear all these hymns of praise being sung at him across Minas Tirith in the middle of the night? Will Iridianna ever get to meet Aragorn properly? And will the permanent marker ever get off that old Gondorian vase? Dun dun DUN!

Thank you for reading!

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	5. En Garde!

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 **Love this story:** It feels so weird to be typing this reply to a name like that! :P I'm truly happy that you're enjoying it, though – and maybe there will be longer chapters later on down the line.

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 **Jane F:** How good am I for updating this so quickly? Thank you for reviewing, and I hope you enjoy this one too!

OoO

 **En Garde!**

Legolas' field trip took the ever-growing assembly of young men and women eager to prove themselves worthy of having their adventures in Middle-Earth not literally into a field, but into a courtyard on the lowest level of the city, right near the guards' barracks. Used as a training-ground and sparring practice by generations of soldiers eager to serve the White City, the Elf thought it would be useful for teaching the whole lot of them that one does not simply pick up a sword and kill things with it.

"I cannot promise that I will be as patient as you," sighed Éowyn as they made she made her reluctant way with Legolas and Gimli down the stone-laid streets, herding the assorted characters before them. "What if I slay one in a fit of impatience?"

"Spoken like a true shield-maiden." Legolas grinned at her. "Nay, I doubt not that your skill will far surpass that of any here – but so will your compassion, which I think will not fail you when it comes to it."

Gimli must have seen the uncertain look upon her countenance, for he said quietly as they walked, "Worry not, my lady. Much as I hate to admit it, the Princeling speaks true when it comes to character, and yours has proven a fine one. That said," he added, with a wicked twinkle in his eyes as they passed beneath the courtyard arch, "don't be too easy on them either."

Legolas gave Éowyn a confused look when she giggled.

There was a mound of wooden swords that Legolas had asked to be left there for their arrival, sitting piled near the far wall. He turned to her as the crowd chattered, a slight breeze stirring his hair. "I think they may feel better if their first sparring session is done with a lady," he said, then quickly amended when Éowyn frowned. "Not that I doubt your skills in the slightest. But we do have a number of rather cocky and dare I say prejudiced young men here…" His gaze moved pointedly over her left shoulder, and she turned to watch a few good-looking individuals who were languidly inspecting their nails and winking at the young women.

Éowyn took the hint. Picking up a wooden sword, she squinted down its blunt blade. "There are some here who could use a sharp lesson, if you'll pardon the pun." She glanced up and returned the Elf's mischievous smile.

It took a while, but the assembled crew finally grew subdued enough for them to be arranged into groups. There were many who believed themselves skilled enough to make their first attempt before an admiring audience – though the number curiously grew less when Legolas stepped forward and announced: "Today, you will not be sparring with me, but with the Lady Éowyn, whose own skill with the blade is formidable."

Not a few then shrank back and hurried back to their seats at the scowl with which the now White Lady of Ithilien graced them.

Lórieniella was first. As Éowyn tied her long hair back into a tail, she did not miss the haughty eyebrow raised in her direction. She suppressed the un-princess-like urge to roll her eyes. It would not be difficult to put this wench back into her place, Galadriel's supposed daughter or no.

The latter stepped forward, "Formidable you may be among Mortal Men, yet I doubt you have ever had the chance to try your skill against an _elleth_ of the realm of Lórien." She picked up one of the swords, flipped another into the air and casually caught it by the handle as it came down.

"Spare me the banter," said Éowyn sharply.

The Elf-maiden looked smug. "As you wish."

 _Lórieniella's skill with the sword had improved in the three days that Haldir had been teaching her. She moved with the grace that was natural to all the Eldar, yet which was well-developed for one so young._

 _He easily parried her first blow, a move which was predictable and too eager. A small smile appeared on his face. She had much to learn yet._

 _But as they moved and circled one another, weapons striking and clinking metallically, it became clear that there was far more going on than what he could see. This bout was going on for much longer than it should have with a beginner. He had trained many young ellyn in the art of the sword, and it usually took months for them to get to this stage._

 _They were evenly matched._

" _Do you give up?" she demanded as their swords clashed once more._

" _I think not!" he exclaimed._

 _Lórieniella suddenly whirled about and struck in a move that he had never seen before in all his long years as a march warden. She flipped and spun in the air lightning-fast. He found himself on his back, her weapon at his throat and a triumphant smile on her face._

" _Well done, my lady!" he breathed. "You have invented an entirely new move! I was completely caught off-guard!"_

 _And Lórieniella was surprised with herself too as she helped Haldir up, though she knew that it was only a matter of time. She was a quick learner._

And she whirled across the courtyard, her wooden sword gracefully swishing through the air as she moved to attack Éowyn using her legendary skills. Hair flying, she swung the blade and it caught the light of the sun on its edge (which was slightly odd given that it was made of wood – but Éowyn was swiftly becoming used to unlikely and dramatic things happening around some of Legolas' strange guests). With an elegant sweep Lórieniella bore down upon her.

Bored, the shield-maiden knocked the weapon clean out of Lórieniella's hand with a flick of her sword. It went skittering across the courtyard stones.

"Next!" Éowyn called, ignoring Lórieniella as her mouth flapped open and closed.

"But—but that was unfair!" sputtered Lórieniella, all affronted Elven dignity. Her eyes flashed angrily. "And how dare you treat me such! How do you expect a fair fight when you are not following protocol?"

"And what protocol would that be?" Éowyn asked flatly. She gestured in the direction in which Lórieniella's sword had flown. "I suggest you take this lesson: that unless you are practised on the battlefield, you are unlikely to be able to outsmart an experienced warden of the march, or a shield-maiden of Rohan, and you are the one who is likely to go flying. Keep practising, though, and you are likely to improve a little," she added, trying to be kind as Lórieniella ground her teeth and stormed away. "And while you are at it, do away with all the flipping and twirling – it would lose you precious time in a real battle, and would likely make you an amusing target for Orc archers. Next!"

Karliah McKirkfitzgeraldpatrick was the next in line. A curvy strawberry blonde, she sashayed to the sword pile and picked up one, not even bothering to look in Éowyn's direction.

" _I'm lost on cross-country! We Dwarves are natural sprinters! Very dangerous over—"_

" _Yeah, yeah," sighed Karliah, rolling her eyes. "You're only dangerous if you've been eating doughnuts, Shortarse. Phew."_

 _Aragorn paused, ignoring Gimli's scowl. "We will rest a few minutes. Karliah, are you alright?"_

" _Oh yeah, sure I'm alright," said Karliah with fake cheer, one hand on her hip. "We've been running around in these fields for days looking for big ugly Uruks, we've hardly eaten or slept, and I haven't had chocolate for, like, ever."_

" _I think I feel the same way," confessed Legolas, giving her a smile. She blushed._

 _Gimli said something unintelligible in the Dwarf tongue. Only the name 'Gandalf' was recognisable amid the harsh syllables. Karliah whipped around._

" _Look, Gandalf's not here, okay? He's a senile old git who couldn't even remember a simple password."_

 _Aragorn and Legolas laughed at her joke. "I am glad of your wit to accompany us on our journey," said Aragorn gratefully. "And your coming with us demonstrates not only a sparkling intelligence but bravery and purity of heart." And he gave her a bow of deep respect._

" _Whatevs," said Karliah with a smile. "Come on, let's go get some of these uglies! And I'm not even talking about Gimli!"_

 _And laughing, the four of them kept running into the sunset._

Confidently, Karliah attacked without warning – much less gracefully than the Elf Lórieniella, but with surprising strength. Fortunately, Éowyn was practiced in her craft. It came naturally to her after so many years of sparring with her brother, and she moved just out of reach and neatly tapped Karliah on the arm.

"Your reach is too long. Your control will be weakened and the worst you will do is scrape my knee. Try again."

Annoyance flared on Karliah's pretty features and she lunged forward again. With a smack to her blade, Éowyn sent her sword clattering to the ground. "Grip is important. Too tight and you will wear yourself out. Too loose and…well, that happens."

Wordlessly, Karliah stormed over to the place where her sword had fallen. Whipping it off the ground, she assailed her instructor with no technique Éowyn had ever seen. With such violence she might have even been able to stab an Orc with it. Nevertheless, she was evidently not concentrating and Éowyn neatly stepped aside as Karliah barrelled past her.

"You charge like a Mûmak," called Éowyn, turning around as Karliah nearly lost her balance. "You are a graceful dancer, at one with her weapon – not a bull charging into a field of cows in spring! Again!"

Ignoring the giggles from the audience, Karliah spun around and attacked. Éowyn blocked it then made a stabbing motion at her middle. "And now there's a hole in your lung. Why do you not take a rest, and come back for instruction tomorrow?" Looking none too pleased at the suggestion, Karliah sullenly stalked into the stands to take a seat, crossing her arms and scowling. "Next!"

Uncertainty now fell upon those who had before been eager to test their skills before the others. After a moment's hesitation, a leanly muscled man peeled himself from the crowd. "If no one else is up for it," he drawled, "then I guess it's my turn."

Éowyn shrugged. "I care not whose turn it may be. I am here to test your skills, and to provide instruction if needed. Pick up your sword."

"No need to hurry," was his response. With that he lazily strolled out into the courtyard, hoiking up his breeches – which were made of a strangely stiff blue material called _deneem_ – as he went. Several moments passed and he began whistling to himself, taking his sweet time over the pile of swords.

Annoyed by his obvious lack of respect, Éowyn said rather coolly, "A Troll would have had your head several times over if you took so much time on the field, and with that attitude I would not have stopped him."

He stood up, eyes narrowed. "I've _fought_ Trolls before. I was here during the War of the Ring."

Éowyn's tone was flat. "Were you, now?"

"My name is Danny Helmetcleaver. Gandalf told me about my heritage – I'm descended from Glorfindel, the legendary Balrog-Slayer, and was sent to modern Earth by the Valar to ensure that Sauron could not harm me as I was growing up." He lifted his chin haughtily.

Éowyn turned to the audience, whose members were now fidgeting nervously at the tension. "Who can tell me why that is not possible?"

In her periphery Legolas leaned over and whispered to Gimli, "This is most unusual! It is usually a female who upon being born is sent to modern Earth to escape Sauron's clutches. Sauron either wishes to destroy her or to marry her for her great powers." He looked a little ill. "You do not suppose this is a slash story, do you?"

Éowyn ignored him.

A shaky hand went up in response to her question. "Because Glorfindel never married?" said a girl with purple eyes, timidly.

"Good, although it is not against the rules of your fanfiction to write a wife for him. What else?"

Another hand went up. "Because the Valar do not have the power to warp time or open portals, at least according to what we know from Elvish lore?"

 _Legolas has done some good work already,_ she thought, hiding her surprise. But the young man in question gave a dismissive gesture. "Not really important. I'm here to fight, and maybe to learn something. If you have anything to teach me, that is."

"I do not think I have much to teach you." Her sword hung loose at her side, demonstrating to all just how unthreatening she found him. "Mostly because you have not the wit to learn."

His jaw dropped open. Most maidens were immediately taken in by his bad boy charm. No one had dared speak to him like this before.

The shield-maiden-turned-princess-of-Emyn-Arnen pressed on mercilessly. "Evidently," she said coldly, "you have forgotten to bring your manners with you, as well as whatever shrunken remains of a brain you have sitting in a jar at home. Until you are able to retrieve at least one of them, as I cannot foresee you being able to retrieve both, you will not spar, and you will not speak to me. Off you go."

In stunned silence all present watched as he slunk back to his seat, pink in the face with anger and shame. There was a funny strangled noise that came somewhere from Gimli's general direction, which might have been laughter or a cough.

Without taking her eyes off Danny Helmetcleaver, Éowyn clenched and unclenched her fists – which Legolas noted were rather white. Taking this moment to intervene, he rose to his feet and walked towards her, boots scuffling against the stone. He came to stand next to her, lips hardly moving as he spoke. "I would have been tempted to lop his head off had he been permitted to speak for a moment longer," he murmured, out of earshot of the audience.

A taken-aback expression registered on Éowyn's face as chatter erupted in the stands behind her. "You? The Elf of legendary cheerfulness? I thought that you did not now wish to kill these things."

"I would not feel so bad for doing so, for he looks like the sort who becomes randomly re-embodied and sent back to the shores of Ennor," replied Legolas. "Just once would not hurt – me, that is." At the plainly horrified look Éowyn gave him he shrugged and glanced back at the stands thoughtfully. "They look rather dejected. I think I have just the thing to cheer their spirits."

Éowyn shook her head as if to try and make sense of the last few sentences before speaking. "Oh? And what is that?"

By way of response Legolas swiftly turned and went to the pack that sat next to Gimli, rummaging through it and giving a satisfied "aha!" when he found that which he looking for. "I hear that modern Mortals like these things, so I took the liberty of obtaining one," he explained to his puzzled companions before turning to the audience and calling for silence.

"If I may have your attention, please?" He held aloft an object that to Éowyn's eyes looked at once both strange and familiar and many pairs of eyes now blinked confusedly at him.

"Who wishes to have a stamp on their hand? This one bears the likeness of a face with a smile on it!"

* * *

Thank you everyone for your wonderful ideas. Any other types of Mary Sue that annoy you? Drop a review and have a whine about it!

If you can think up a particularly atrocious name for a Sue then leave it here, and I will pick the winner out of my mini top hat (because I have one) to feature in a later chapter. Ready? Go!


	6. Bill-Galad Was An Elven King

Anonymous review replies:

Love this story: A name like Priscilla certainly does sound very stuck-up and well…prissy! I do wonder if her surname is a literal one. Pearls should not be growing inside cardiac tissue. Thanks for reviewing, and I'm so glad you're enjoying this!

anthi35: Thrilmalia? Wow, that does sound like it could be a Sue name! There's a Sindarin name generator at .com. Alternatively if you google dreamingfifi's wonderful website _Merin Essi Ar Quenteli_ you can pick out your own name to your satisfaction. :) Thank you for the review.

OoO

 **Bill-Galad Was An Elven King**

They had thought Faramir the soft one, after a few more gruelling fencing sessions presided over by his wife. Quiet and composed, he seemed less likely to force them to endure the rigorous drilling that Éowyn mercilessly put them through every time they dragged themselves down to the practice yard.

That, of course, was before they started training with him.

Having spent the last two days running up hill and down dale for three-hour stretches Wren was beginning to feel as though she had been flattened by a club-wielding Troll, repeatedly, and then thrown off a cliff a few times for good measure. The scratches and bruises were testimony to the less nice bushes that grew on the Ithilien-side of the Anduin. And those cute skull-print stockings from Dangerfield were a complete write-off.

As she and the others hauled their unwashed selves into a room that a Gondorian nobleman on the fifth level of the city had generously donated for their use, Wren wracked her brains and tried to recall whether her version of events had included being defeated by malicious bramble bushes, because that part seemed a little hazy.

 _Legolas watched Wren as she determinedly stepped over slippery patches of mud in her woefully unprepared little dress and shoes. She had told them before that she was not used to being outdoors much, and was especially not used to walking long distances._

 _Watching her now, though, it seemed as though she had been born into it. She flitted from one place to another, and was sure-footed as any woodland creature. "Just like a bird," he thought with a small smile. "She has been named rightly."_

 _And he wondered at her in silence, for he had slowly come to realise over the weeks in which she had joined their party that within this small young woman was strength like oak and iron and whatever Sauron had made the Ring out of. Except without creepy bits of soul embedded in it._

 _A sudden gasp jolted him out of his thoughts and he found Wren tripping over some serrated tussock. Immediately his warrior's reflexes had him closing the two-foot distance between them and seizing her by the wrists before she could fall._

 _Her frightened eyes looked up into his own and a small, shaky smile of gratitude curved her mouth. To his immense surprise as he looked upon her he found her features more beautiful than any elleth's and felt the sudden urge to tilt her face upwards and—_

"This isn't how it was supposed to go!" groused Wren, kicking a polished Gondorian table-leg in frustration.

"Tell me about it," grumbled an unfamiliar voice from somewhere down the back of the room. Wren jumped.

There was a tall, slender young woman striking a pose in the sunlight, pale skin glittering in a rather Edward-esque manner. A not-so-slender one slouched against the back wall – evidently the one who had spoken, because everyone knew that beautiful and perfect people didn't have voices like female lumberjacks.

It was the latter who rolled her eyes at the former. "Give it a bloody rest," she groaned, her accent practically screaming _chav_. "You look ridiculous."

The slender one blinked confusedly. "Oh. I'll just try another one then." Flinging an arm up, she knocked out the guy behind her and struck another dramatic pose.

Wren edged away and sat on the other side, away from the newcomers. Quite frankly neither of them sounded like _her_ sort of people. They probably didn't even know who _Get The F*** Out Of My Pool_ were.

In the meantime Faramir strode in cheerily as if they had not just been jogging all the way from Cair Andros and looking no worse for wear aside from a twig sitting at a jaunty angle in his hair. Accompanying him were, of course, Legolas and Gimli.

Legolas started as his gaze fell upon the pose-striking girl. "Who on earth is _that_?" he whispered to Faramir in alarm. "I am losing my Elven marbles! Honestly, I cannot remember who is participating anymore and all these new arrivals are beginning to slip past my notice."

A glance out of the corner of his eye did indeed reveal to Faramir that Legolas' eyes appeared a little wide and…well, a little glazed, too. Tentatively, he attempted to broach a subject that he had kept to himself over the past week or so. He cleared his throat. "Legolas, are you certain that all is well?"

Legolas shook his head as if coming out of a trance. " _Well_? Of course all is well! It has never been better!" he boomed, startling several pink-haired elves from another fandom (who had starred in anime/LotR crossovers). He sighed and lowered his voice. "I must admit that I am a little tired. Perhaps this is what it feels like to Mortals when they begin to age. I have the utmost sympathy for your kind."

Decidedly ignoring the comment, Faramir clapped a comforting hand upon the Elf's shoulder. "If it makes you feel better, I do not know these two new ones either. They must have arrived when we were outside. You know," he added, "so many of them say that they do not spend much time outdoors! It makes my heart glad to remedy that. I cannot figure out why they dislike it so much."

Gimli raised a bushy eyebrow at the assembled crowd. Faramir and Legolas followed his gaze. Staring back at them were at least fifty disgruntled fanfiction OCs of both sexes, every fine-featured face scowling miserably beneath layers of dirt, every delicate and carefully-planned outfit torn, every boot spattered with twenty varieties of bog mud.

"I am sure they will get used to it," said Faramir quickly. _And they will have to, if they wish to stay any longer. If they think my training is rigorous I know not how they will fare when Aragorn takes them out on one of his simulated Orc raids._ "What am I to do with them today?"

Before Legolas could answer, Gimli interjected, "A bath may be on the agenda. I know not how our princeling here has managed not to wither away for the smell, but—"

"Gimli, _mellon nin_ , I was merely being polite," answered the Elf. "I would not wish to offend them."

"They are offending my nose," said Gimli flatly. "May I request permission to start retching when we have reached the next street corner?"

Faramir stifled a chuckle. "Perhaps today we will start on genealogy?" he suggested. "I am willing to try anything to silence Bill-Galad at the back." He discreetly nodded in the direction of a young man who was singing and flinging sparkles everywhere.

"I think that sounds like a good idea." Legolas waved the two new girls down. To Gimli, he said, "If the smell offends you so, Durin's son, why do you not come with me and interrogate these two?"

Gimli shrugged. "Why not?"

They left the room, the slender one striking about ten poses before disappearing through the door, and the not-so-slender one tromping after them. Faramir shook his head before turning back to his class.

"Alright! Who wishes to learn about family trees?"

OoO

Legolas held his head high, not wishing to let any hint of his spinning mind show. He had not wanted to tell even Aragorn that the last three nights in a row had seen him sleeping in random rooms in the Citadel to escape any more incidents – one too many times having someone sailing into his balcony and start singing at him (mostly females) or challenging him to a duel (mostly males) had given him ample opportunity to re-think his sleeping quarters.

He had especially not wanted to tell anyone else that he had slept slumped over a table in Gimli's room last night in case those slash rumours started up again.

So it was with impassive Elven countenance that he turned to face his newest (and least unwashed) guests. The first one with the long golden hair and perfect curves was the most obvious candidate for his #30days (as they had begun calling it) so he spoke to her first.

"Welcome to Minas Tirith," he announced as cheerily as possible. "And you are?"

"Isannaleebelle Jones," answered the girl sweetly, before tossing a handful of glitter into the air. "And I am also called Isannaleebelle Two-Names."

Through the sparkling pink cloud Legolas squinted at her very obviously un-perfect companion. "And you?"

"Gertie." She flatly supplied her name. "We're sisters. Apparently the universe felt the need to drag the both of us here for reforming, which I'm not really in need of."

Legolas frowned. "We all need improving, in one way or another. There is always something we can do to make ourselves better people."

"My Elvish name," continued Isannaleebelle dreamily, "is Pithien, according to The Name Generator. Pithien the Tall. And I have journeyed far and wide across Middle-Earth in search of—"

"Oh, pith off," snapped Gertie. "The only place you've ever journeyed is to the fridge and back!"

The unfortunately-named Pithien/Isannaleebelle rounded on her in irritation, hands on hips. "You're just jealous of my naturally-pointed ears!"

"Only a person with a brain the size of a bean could come to that conclusion. You can't even count to three."

Pithien the Tall seemed not to hear her. "And you're just jealous that our parents love me better!"

Looking utterly perplexed, Gertie threw her hands up. "That doesn't even make sense! Isn't your whole angst thing based on the fact that you're the _un_ loved one?"

"Yes, you twit!" spat Pithien.

"Prat!"

"Git!"

"That's _enough_ from the both of you!" exploded Gimli. His echoing baritone shocked them both into silence. Angered, he pointed a finger at Pithien. " _You_ are arrogant and spoilt. And _you_ ," he said, rounding on Gertie before she could smirk, "have the worst attitude I have seen thus far. And that is after dealing with the Mouth of Sauron's daughter!"

"But that's the problem!" shouted Gertie. "I'm not supposed to be here!" After a moment of tense silence, she slowly uncurled her fists and heaved a sigh, rubbing her forehead. "I'm sorry if I've not made the best impression, but this whole thing has been really tough on me."

Folding his arms across his chest and silently thanking Gimli for his temper, Legolas levelled a stern look at her. "Believe you me, this has not been easy for anyone. Many of our guests have left their homes and countries – some of them even their worlds in order to be here."

"I know, but most of them have done it voluntarily. I'm here completely by accident. My sister is the one with the issues." She gave a helpless gesture in the direction of Pithien, who was now drooling a little, face mashed against a tapestry. "For whatever reason I've ended up coming with her on this whole hashtag-thirty-days thing, and I have no idea what's going on or how to get back."

"Ah." Now it made sense – Gertie did not seem to fit the usual character mould, or at least not the kinds of characters Legolas was used to. But what were they going to do with her, now that she was here? "I have no way of sending you back," he said, watching regretfully as her slightly pudgy face fell, "but I will endeavour to make your stay here comfortable, or at the very least, educational. Er—would you mind peeling your sister off the tapestry? I will more easily be able to arrange an escort to _The Whittled Wench_ for you then."

"The Whittled What?"

"The—oh, never mind," sighed Legolas. He stopped a passing servant and asked him to take Gertie and Isannaleebelle/Pithien outside before sending for Iorlas.

As they watched the girls leave, Gimli said thoughtfully, "What exactly is a hashtag?"

"Would you like to know my opinion?"

"I am all ears. And beard."

"To be frank with you," said Legolas after a pause, "I have little idea what a hashtag is—I only used it because it looked like Elven runes."

Gimli shook his head in disbelief. "You amaze me sometimes."

OoO

"—so essentially, no, you are not Galadriel's daughter," Faramir finished, almost out of breath from his attempts to explain the Finwean family tree without going into detail about Galadriel and Celeborn's personal life. "And neither are you," he added, causing another girl to close her mouth and sit down. "Or you, down the back."

Not in the least bit intimidated by the irately glowing face of Lórieniella before him, he folded his arms. "You seem to be having trouble grasping the concept," he said. "Galadriel only had one daughter – Celebrian, who became the wife of Elrond – and no sons. Did you grow up together?"

Lórieniella's perfectly-angled feminine jaw visibly hardened. She tossed her head. "Yes."

"Oddly enough, she has no memory of you. Or of Amadrierith sitting next to you, or Celendiel there – nay, not even you, Bill-Galad." The latter's handsome face drooped with such comical sadness that Faramir was torn between laughing and feeling rather sorry for him. _I shall endeavour to remember that inn of which Boromir sang so many praises for having the best ale in Minas Tirith – perhaps the news will cheer him._ The memory of Boromir sobered him almost immediately. He waved that wrench of grief aside as a pink-haired Elf piped up.

"But Bill-Galad is an Elven king! He has had lays and poems written in his honour!"

Faramir coughed to hide an exclamation of surprise. "I have no intention getting started on those. Suffice it to say that—"

" _Bill-Galad was an Elven king,_

 _Of him the harpers hardly sing,_

 _Knowing little, or not at all,_

 _Of his exploits with a tennis ball,"_ sang the supposed Elven king woefully.

 _Yes, I think I will find that inn for him._ Brushing aside the urge to bury his head in his hands in frustration, Faramir took a deep breath before speaking. "This is in no way intended to offend, but I feel that it must be said." He paused. "You're all bastards."

The silence was palpable, and lasted for approximately three seconds before almost everyone present burst into tears. Including Bill-Galad, who produced a lute out of nowhere and started howling a Sindarin rendition of _Boulevard of Broken Dreams_.

 _Oh gods, that was not what I meant._ Faramir slammed a hand down on his desk and, jolted out of misery, the room fell quiet again. "I mean the term in its original sense – that many of you claiming to be the sons and daughters of canon characters have been born out of wedlock to Mortals. And those of you who are not have parents of your own. Please do not feel the need to steal canon characters' parents for yourselves.

"In fact," he said, standing up and waving an arm expansively, "you do not need to be the son or daughter of someone well-known in order to be important! You do not need to be important to live happy or interesting lives! And you certainly do not need to be perfectly good, or ravishingly attractive, or ridiculously competent in swordcraft in order to make friends. Of many peoples is Middle-Earth made, and of many lands – yet none of them are there simply to revolve around you." He lowered his voice for dramatic effect. "You can make a difference in Middle-Earth in your own way. Find that way. Find your own strengths, and remember that it is your flaws, not your perfection, that will help you learn."

None there noticed that a few changes – small, really, almost unnoticeable – had quietly transpired in the room as he spoke. Changes such as pointy ears disappearing, hair lightening or darkening ever so slightly.

For, unwittingly, Faramir of Ithilien had discovered a secret of which Legolas for a long time had not breathed a word to another living creature.

OoO

Well, I put the names supplied by you lovely contributors into a hat just as I started writing the intro to this chapter – and with not a few giggles as I re-read them to myself and wondered just how you guys managed to come up with such awful Sue names!

Alas that I couldn't fit every one of them into this chapter because I would have loved to try.

The winner according to my impromptu sorting hat is…

Amateur Bacon Cook, for "Pithien the Tall" – a true atrocity, for which I applaud you.

Please keep the names coming! There's more picking-names-out-of-hats to be done, plenty more chapters to write, and loads of silly ideas and fun to be had! :)


	7. The King's Troublesome Trousers

Sorry that the updates have been a little sluggish! RL has been ruthless lately.

To make up for it, though, here's a nice long chapter. :)

 **Anonymous review replies:**

Guest: Ah! A Gary Stu! We haven't had too many male names in so thank you for the suggestion! And thanks for reviewing too.

Luthi: Haha! I hope your laptop didn't take exception to having cookie crumbs sprayed on it. I have this tiny laptop I've had for five years called Feanor and he somehow always looks grumpy if I get anything on him. I'm glad you liked Bill-Galad's name. It popped into my head one day while I was writing and decided he just had to be in it. Also, that Sue name sounds kind of posh. Maybe she'll make an appearance at some point! Thank you for the review. :)

Summer: Loving the horse's name! It sounds like the sort that would involve a lot of spit flying. Thank you for the input and review!

OoO

 **The King's Troublesome Trousers**

Aragorn rubbed his eyes and gave an un-kingly yawn. Soft sunlight spilled through the window of his chambers, and illuminated the wrinkled side of the bed that was decidedly empty of Arwen.

He sat bolt upright. Sunlight?! He should have been awake well before dawn!

Crazily, he leapt out of bed. The sleeping tunic went flying across the room. An Elvish curse went flying a moment later as Aragorn stumbled into his bed post. He threw on another tunic and seized his circlet. Staggering as he yanked his trousers on with one hand, circlet in the other, he finally tripped over his clothing chest and landed with an _oof!_ on the floor.

That was how his wife the Queen found him. She opened the door and was startled to find the circlet rolling past her feet before clattering into the wall. Her poor husband was lying prone on the ground with his trousers half-on, underclothes showing beneath his long tunic.

Slowly, Aragorn raised his head at the sound of the door creaking open. Two Arwens wobbled in his vision.

"Much as I appreciate seeing you at my feet, _meleth_ , I think running a kingdom requires you to sit up most of the time. And preferably with all your clothes on."

Aragorn attempted a rogueish grin. "Care to join me?"

"I have more important things to do," answered Arwen airily, though she all but skipped over and pressed a playful kiss to the top of his head anyway. Aragorn glanced up at the rush of air that followed, surprised to see Arwen lowering herself to sit on the bed just above him. Looking down, she raised an eyebrow at him. "Would you mind telling me what you are doing on the floor?"

"First," said Aragorn, propping himself up on one elbow, "tell me why you allowed me to sleep past my accustomed waking hour."

The Queen's expression sobered. Her eyes looked seriously into his own. "Because you are tired. Because you need to rest. And it is of no use to even attempt denying it," she added, putting an end to his protest as he tried to sit up. The look upon her fair features was one of concern. "The burden of being king sits upon you more heavily than any crown, I know. And with the added stress of recent times…"

"I know, I know," sighed Aragorn. He tugged off a stray thread hanging from his tunic. Ruefully, he smiled at Arwen. "As Rangers we were trained to self-discipline, and needed to be ready at a moment's notice to rise. Sometimes we would waken to a band of Orcs ready to knife us as we slept. We needed to learn, too, how to hunt and fight and journey on little sleep. I suppose the habit of early rising remains with me."

"My heart tells me that there is more that you refrain from saying."

Her words were closer to the truth than he expected. That gift of foresight that ran through the family had its downside. "You are right," he said heavily. "I feel sometimes that I am trapped, held more securely by title and throne than ever I was by my work as the man without title who roamed the wilds under so many names." He turned to his wife, and then looked down at the floor. "If there is one thing within my control, it is when I rise. For then, I am in command of the day – at least for the hour before treaties, trade and the needs of my people then claim it from me."

The warmth of Arwen's hand pressed into his. Surprised, he looked up. In her eyes shone the sadness that he felt as he spoke, mingled with the love that welled within his own heart. It was in these moments they shared, quiet and wordless, that the greatest love grew between them, and he awaited her wisdom as she rose to her feet.

" _Meleth_ , we must find some way to peel Iridianna off the wall outside our chambers. It's driving me around the bend."

"What?"

Aragorn scrambled to his feet, nearly treading on her dress as she trailed out of the room. Hastily, he yanked his forgotten trousers up as he stumbled out the door. A young servant happened to be passing at that moment. His honest eyes widened at the sight of his king following his wife around and fumbling with his laces.

Red searing his cheeks over the top of the pile of washing he was carrying, the boy hurried on, trying his hardest not to give any sign that he had seen them. Arwen's silvery laughter rang out behind him.

"What do you mean, _peeling Iridianna off the wall_?" demanded Aragorn, trying to remain stern despite the fact that the sight of Arwen with her hands over her mouth and eyes crinkling with mirth made him feel rather melty inside. "I have hardly seen the girl at all!"

"The very fact that you know of whom I speak when you know the names of not half of Legolas' other characters says something," said Arwen drily as she wiped her eyes. "Or have you forgotten how many times she has tried to escape the Houses of Healing, or, most recently, _The Whittled Wench_ , to faint at your feet? Or how many cupboards she has hidden in to ensure that she can catch you as she passes?"

Confusion made Aragorn's brow furrow. "There was more than one?"

"Ah. I see that Gimli forgot to apprise you of yesterday's incident." She shook her head. "Perhaps it is time to have a word with Legolas."

"What for? How much harm could she be?"

Arwen's raised eyebrow spoke more truth than Aragorn cared to admit. "Tell me again why you and Legolas used to kill these things…?"

"Good point." Running a hand through his hair, Aragorn folded his arms and gazed out the window. Below him the city spread, white turning to brilliant gold in the rising sun. Here and there random spots of light glinted and flashed where evidently one of Legolas' character army members was dancing or brushing their hair or sparring or letting their inner lights of purity shine forth. "They cannot resist making themselves the centre of attention," he mused, unsure whether he found it annoying or funny. He turned to his wife. "Are you really that troubled about Iridianna?"

"Yes, but more for her sake than for yours." Her eyes were sad. "I trust you with my life. I cannot see you suddenly abandoning me or the kingdom to bind yourself to her. Have no fear on that score. But she was called here to become her best self, to step out of the role her creator made for her and find her own path through life. I fear that even Legolas' best efforts may not help her if she continues to follow you around like a second shadow."

Arwen was right. More persistent than many of even Legolas' considerable fan following, the girl needed to be told a few truths. He had no wish to hurt her feelings. Yet something had to be done if she were going to gain anything from his friend's program and learn to be a better character. Or if she were just going to be happy in life.

No one could possibly angst that much without eventually giving themselves haemorrhoids.

That, however, would have to be resolved on another occasion. Aragorn was due to meet Legolas and discuss the camping trip that the King had somehow managed to be roped into organising. He groaned at the thought. How had that even happened, anyway? Half the agreements he seemed to be making these days he wasn't sure he was even awake for.

In the growing morning light Aragorn ambled down all seven levels of the city to Legolas' favourite practice yard, careful to avoid the hawk-eyed gaze of the fangirls (and the occasional fanboy) as he passed.

As it turned out, the effort was hardly required. The clack of wooden swords, running footsteps as people swept in and out of the yard, the buzz of hurried conversation and tight commands ringing over the din, served to render him almost unnoticed by even the most desperate of his fans.

A young woman whom he was sure had been possessed of "naturally purple tresses that fell like a Cadbury-copyrighted waterfall to her slender waist" hurried past with what looked suspiciously like ordinary blonde streaking along her parting. Evidently flustered, she nearly barrelled right into him before, startled at the last moment, her face flushed red and she mumbled an apology before hurrying on.

Not a moment later a rather good-looking young man Aragorn recognised as being named Klaus Dieter Erich Vilfrind strode past confidently, swinging his sword and whistling a cheerful tune. Closer inspection showed the slightest hint of a pimple threatening to mar his otherwise flawless skin.

Aragorn frowned. All this normality was very much…not normal.

Away in the distance, the harried-sounding voice of Legolas was easily recognisable amid the noise, growing louder as its owner drew closer.

"I know not what this _choclét_ is! Please stop insisting that I cover myself in it for your convenience!" As he rounded the corner, Aragorn saw that his friend was clutching a letter, which he was shaking around as though he were throttling the writer. Beneath Gimli's beard Aragorn guessed was a barely-suppressed grin, judging by the twitch the heavy curtain of facial hair seemed to have acquired. "And you!" He looked down in horror at a girl whose hip bones were protruding beneath her dress. "Eat something, please!"

The Elf looked harassed by the time he reached Aragorn. "Honestly!" he sputtered in an uncharacteristic display of ill-temper. "You would think that they were here only to fangirl instead of being reformed!"

Evidently he did not see the King's eyebrows nearly fly off his forehead.

"Anyway," he said, after taking a deep breath and restoring a rather fragile smile to his attractive Elven visage, "we must plan this camping trip. I think it will be of great benefit to our young ladies and gentleman to know what it is _really_ like to be out on the road and in the woods all day."

Rubbing his forehead, Aragorn said, "And when, exactly, did I agree to this? I cannot recall when you even asked this of me."

"I think you may have been signing several documents of varying importance at the time," answered Gimli on the Elf's behalf. "The princeling chose his time well."

"I know not whether I really agree with that," said Aragorn doubtfully.

"Violinsticks!" Legolas waved his hand in accompaniment to his quaint mispronunciation of the Mortal colloquialism. "What is the matter with you, _mellon_ nin? You love camping!"

"Not with dozens of young and lusty fanfiction characters huddling around my bedroll!" Aragorn lowered his voice after a few people's heads had turned in his direction. "Alright. What do you propose, Legolas?"

"I propose a trip into Ithilien – the land is fair and quite pleasant."

"If one avoids the areas ravaged by Orcs," muttered Gimli.

"Indeed. Perhaps we should venture close to the borders of Mordor on occasion, just for the educational value. Nowhere near Minas Morgul, however – I see no need to traumatise them to that extent."

Aragorn nodded his head in agreement, remembering that the curious few who had ignored his edict not to enter the premises of the haunted city were likely still in the Houses of Healing. It was empty of Ringwraiths and there were very few Orcs left – yet some nameless and formless old evil remained still behind the cold walls.

Annoying as Legolas' little band of fans were, none of them quite deserved that.

"Holdwine!" snapped Legolas, jolting Aragorn out of his thoughts as a young man with the muscled arms and blond hair of the Rohirrim slammed into the Elf. "This is a meeting! Do kindly watch where you are going!"

Aragorn's troublesome trousers chose that very moment to play one last nasty trick. The worn laces snapped by the last thread and collapsed around King Elessar's ankles.

As Legolas gaped and Gimli's face became suspiciously devoid of expression, Aragorn felt himself unable to move, closing his eyes.

 _I have a teenaged girl chasing me. My wife thinks I am too tired to run the kingdom. My best friends manage to take advantage of my preoccupations to lure me into traipsing about Ithilien. And now there is a young man enjoying the sight of my bare legs. Could anything else go wrong?_

It was to Aragorn's credit that he managed to hike up his trousers and look as though he had done nothing more out-of-the-ordinary than eaten a sandwich. It was rather fortunate that most of the females in the area had left to learn how to spear boars in the fields outside the city (very old and slow-moving ones). Holdwine was eying him with a look that suggested something between admiration and disgust.

"I ADMIRE YOUR MANLY MUSCLES," he boomed. The rush of air could have knocked Aragorn flat onto his back. "BUT YOU SHOULD NOT BARE YOUR LEGS BEFORE THE COMPANY OF MEN."

Normally Aragorn would not have troubled himself answering a dimwit such as this. But given that whatever was left of his dignity had gone with his pants, he figured that he had nothing left to lose. And the vacant look on his face spoke no malice. "And why is that?"

"BECAUSE SOMEONE MIGHT THINK YOU ARE GAY."

Confused, Aragorn turned to Legolas. Red-faced, the latter barked a few instructions and sent the Man of Rohan scuttling off to do his bidding. He glanced down at Gimli. "Master Dwarf, what does the state of being gay entail?"

Before the Dwarf could answer that question, Legolas clapped him on the shoulder. "Come, Gimli, we must away. There are more preparations to be made!"

"But Gimli has not even had the chance to advise me of what happened with Iridianna yesterday!" protested Aragorn.

"Then you must find out later," called Legolas over his shoulder, departing with his diminutive bearded friend to Valar knew where.

Aragorn decided that he had had enough for one day and, as he made his way back towards the Citadel, resolved to pour himself a glass of Elvish wine from Rhovanion. Or maybe two.

OoO

Iridianna trod heavily into the courtyard behind _The Whittled Wench_ , past the little smithy, and froze when she found Morfëa's Troll sitting on the white stone bench at the back wall. A pensive look had settled over his ugly features and he seemed to be a little lost. It took a moment for Unggh to register her presence.

" _LITTOOL LAYDEE_ ," he rumbled, shifting his stony bulk along the length of the bench to make room for her – a surprisingly kind gesture, and not one which she was expecting from a Troll.

She hesitated for a moment, just before thinking _stuff it_ and sitting down on the bench, though she kept her distance.

But she hardly noticed Unggh after a while as she became steadily lost in thought, chin resting on her hands. Every single attempt to win Aragorn's attention had ended in miserable failure, and she could not think why. Her story had worked very well on its own the first time. From first winning Legolas' heart to then being torn between the two of them – and all her other adventures, like emerging victorious from every battle and protecting everyone with her awesome powers – everything had gone smoothly. Up until now, that is.

And that cupboard incident yesterday had been a disaster. Fancy mistaking that short bearded axe guy for her Ranger.

 _Where am I going wrong?_ she wondered, perplexed.

The side door banged open and a young man burst through it. Startled, Iridianna glanced up and watched him looking this way and that until his eyes settled upon the large form of the Troll. She could have sworn Unggh was squirming.

"There you are!" he exclaimed, crossing the courtyard. His uniform showed him to be some sort of soldier – maybe a guard. To Iridianna, everyone in a uniform was probably a guard.

He came to a stop and folded his arms in a gesture of exaggerated annoyance, the way a parent might do to a small child who has misbehaved. "Perhaps you might tell me why you thought it was a good idea to escape the house you are staying in?"

" _UNGGH DON'T NEED TO STAY IN HOUSE_ ," said the Troll, folding his arms crossly.

"Yes, Unggh does need to stay in the house," said the young guard reprovingly. "It is a nice house, and it has plenty of room for Unggh to eat and rest."

" _YES, BUT UNGGH DON'T WANT TO STAY THERE ALL DAY. TOO LONG._ "

"Is it because Unggh misses his mistress?" said the guard quietly.

To Iridianna's surprise, a big tear suddenly fell down the Troll's face and dripped off his nose.

" _YEEEEEES_ ," he wailed, and then he burst into tears.

Iridianna edged away a little further again as salty water exploded everywhere in the wake of Unggh's misery. _Isn't his mistress that horrible sorceress bitch? Thank God she's not after Aragorn too._

Awkwardly, the guard patted the Troll on the arm. He turned to Iridianna with an apologetic look. "I am sorry to have disturbed you. I am afraid my father, my master and our good King would be unhappy with me if I allowed Unggh to remain loose."

"Um…yeah. Don't worry about it."

Sudden recognition lit his eyes. "You are one of Legolas'…how do you say it…tag-hash thirty days folk?"

The incredulity that Iridianna felt at hearing a random denizen of Middle-Earth trying to say _hashtag_ must have shown on her face because he winced. "I am sorry. My pronunciation when it comes to your version of our language is not always terribly good."

"Don't worry about it," said Iridianna again. "You should hear some of the Elves trying to speak it. I heard one getting annoyed at another Elf the other day. He pulled a utensil out of nowhere and told him to get forked."

The young man grinned and his whole face changed. "Now, that is one I do know of. I do not think that eating implements were what your kind had in mind."

How that smile changed his sombre features. His eyes were alight with mirth - they were the grey of mist upon the forest, the slightest hint of dark green showing behind them. She had never seen eyes like that before.

"I am Angrenir, by the way," he said after a moment's pause, and she thought she could almost see the faintest glow of embarrassment in his face.

"Iridianna," she said, softly. "My name is Iridianna."

OoO

Legolas was glad to be alone.

He had just sent Gimli off to teach some young Dwarven characters from the Hobbit fandom the basics of the subtle art of axe-wielding. He knew Gimli would never admit it, but he looked almost gratified to have fans of his race to instruct. And Legolas himself was taking the rest of the day off to rest and enjoy himself for a while.

There was an unusually deserted stretch of street just in front of him, where evidently the rich residents were not even risen to greet the day yet even though it was mid-morning. A familiar feeling descended into the pit of his stomach, his senses suddenly alert, and the little hairs on the back of his neck prickled in an odd but unmistakable warning.

Warrior's instinct made him scan the environment, unobtrusive yet not missing a single detail. Part of him was rolling its bright blue eyes and asking him why they were doing this – there was nothing to be on the watch for. Not within the walls of Minas Tirith, a city veritably brimful of Elf-friends.

There was not a sound.

Legolas let out a sigh that he did not know he had been holding in. He turned, deciding to take another direction, when he nearly jumped out of his skin.

Standing nearly nose-to-nose with him was…himself, yet not himself. Another version perhaps, with the same warrior braids binding his golden hair and the same bright blue eyes, which were narrowed in hostility.

"Who are you?" snarled Legolas through gritted teeth, glad that his tone was hard enough to mask his shock.

"I," hissed back the Elf who was not him, "am the real Legolas Thranduillion, and I challenge you to a duel."

OoO

Thank you sian22 for the Stu of the Day – a slightly brain-dead Man of Rohan whose name is Holdwine. Wine is probably the only thing he _can_ hold.

And thank you for the guest reviewer who suggested our Other Stu with his very German-sounding name of Klaus (I changed the spelling a little, anonymous reviewer!).

This thank you note accompanied by a hug from your favourite LotR character goes to you if you have reviewed, followed, faved or even just anonymously read this story. I appreciate your suggestions and support. :)


	8. The Plural of Legolas is Legoli

A belated Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to everyone! I hope you all had a good one. :D

I'm sorry about the delay in getting this chapter out – I've been trying to deal with all the delightfully bureaucratic things that go along with becoming your own employer with the result that I've only had a few moments here and there to quickly jot things down.

But fear not! Being able to take breaks whenever I feel like it means that I'll definitely be able to do some more writing. And that means more of this silly story. :D

Today's chapter title comes compliments of my long-time FFN friend **Jedi Master Luthien** and a slightly strange conversation we had.

OoO

 **Anonymous review replies:**

anthi35: No worries! Thank you for providing the name. :D And I'm glad you enjoyed the last chapter. Here's hoping this one won't disappoint!

Love this story: Maybe I should have included a "Do Not Read This In Class" warning. Many's the time I've found myself trying my hardest not to crack up in class while reading. Thanks for the name suggestions! And thank you for reviewing! :D

Guest: I'm glad you like it, and thank you for the review!

OoO

 **The Plural of Legolas is Legoli**

The real Legolas struggled not to reach a tentative hand to his face and ensure that his jaw had not fallen off.

"A _duel_?" he echoed.

"Yes, a duel," hissed the Other Legolas. "Or do you not know the meaning of the word?"

The real Legolas stared. This version of him was more serious, more sarcastic and definitely less even-tempered than he. And yet, he was unmistakably…well, him. Or at least, him on a bad day. Him on a bad day, and sleep-deprived. And possibly hungover.

"Dueling was outlawed in Minas Tirith centuries ago!" he sputtered. "Are you _trying_ to get us arrested?"

"I doubt very much that our friend the King will be amenable to that," answered the Other Legolas haughtily. "Besides, this is a point of honour. I must avenge myself."

"On _what_?!" shouted the real Legolas, feeling his temper beginning to get the better of him.

Flushing with anger, the Other Legolas opened his mouth to answer when he froze. His gaze suddenly locked onto a point just over the real Legolas' shoulder. His eyes narrowed.

"A diversion."

He spoke with an intensity that spoke of bewilderment and struggle and revulsion and fascination all at once. There was only one explanation for that. One of his OCs was trying to find her true love. Again.

And now there were two of them.

The Other Legolas' blue eye twitched. "Which of us is she after?"

"I—uh—" said the real Legolas coherently.

"I do not understand." Suddenly shifting moods, the Other Legolas spoke softly, almost to himself. "Of the two of us, I surely spend more time here than you do. Why is it that I am less immune to her charms?"

"What is that supposed to mean?" demanded Legolas, subtly moving his hand towards his belt where one of his knives rested against his hip, in the event that this insane version of himself cracked and decided to assail him.

 _I do not wish for me to be killed by myself_ , he thought, feeling a little less coherent by the minute.

Melodious singing burst over the city, somewhere in the levels above them where the walls towered over their heads. Both versions of Legolas ground their teeth until it ceased.

"I still do not understand what you wish to fight me for," said the real Legolas when the ringing in his ears had stopped. "I have never before seen you within this city, nor within any of the places I have visited in Middle-Earth."

"Nor I you," answered the Other Legolas, the hostility draining from his tone and being swiftly replaced with something else entirely. Something like sudden recognition lit up his eyes. "I thought perhaps that you were an imposter, seeking to make mischief of some kind."

 _I could say the same of you_ , thought the real Legolas, though he was reluctant to point out the fact. This other version of him seemed touchy.

"I think," he said slowly, "we must endeavour to see whether we may discover what is happening and why there are two of us."

The Other Legolas hesitated before finally glancing down, almost seeming to note with surprise that his fists were still clenched. Relaxing, he let out a sigh and said, "I believe I may already have an answer to that."

It was one of those rare moments in which Legolas felt something was about to happen that was quite beyond his understanding. He was intelligent enough and grasped concepts with ease most of the time. But he was no scholar – he was a warrior deep in his heart, right down to his very core.

So when the Other Legolas spoke, all he was able to give him was a blank stare even though he was well aware that his lips were moving and sounds were probably coming out.

"I'm afraid you will have to repeat that," he said faintly. "A time-space what? I did what?"

"Your meddling with the Eighth Palantír did it." The Other Legolas sounded weary. "Another Middle-Earth exists, with subtle changes, and never at the same time as the other. We are never in the same place at the same moment in time. Neither of us was ever meant to meet the other."

"What do you mean?" said the real Legolas shakily. This feeling of dread and anxiety was not a familiar one to him. It was disturbing. "Who are you?"

The Other Legolas held his gaze steadily, sadly. "I," he said, "am Movie Legolas."

OoO

" '— _and raised her hand to conjure white horses that galloped down the Bruinen, washing away the evil Ringwraiths._

" _How did you do that?" gasped Arwen, who stood in awe at her great power and wished that her hair cascaded waterfallingly as well as her aunt's did._

 _Lórieniella smiled sadly, turning her azure eyes towards her stunned niece, and shrugged as Frodo frothed at her feet. "It was easy."_

 _And Arwen had no idea of her past…that Lórieniella had once had a choice…and had not the Witch-King turned to great evil, they might still be together even now. Yet as it was, he had just been flushed down the Bruinen by the one woman he had ever loved…and it was all her fault…'_ "

Éowyn burst into giggles. Gimli buried his head in his hands, groaning. "The daughter of Galadriel and the _Witch-King_?" he said incredulously.

"Perhaps Sues are not as uncreative as we first suspected them to be," chuckled Faramir.

Éomer shot them all a glare over the top of the papers. "This is most serious," he said with mock disapproval. "I know not why you are all finding it so entertaining. This is _true love_ and the fate of Middle-Earth we are talking about."

The Queen's bright eyes were sparkling. "Perhaps if you read us some more, we may be able to receive it with more gravity," she said with a mischievous grin.

Éomer shrugged and scanned the papers, tossing a few aside as he went. "Rivendell…Lórieniella somehow heals Frodo with the power of love…Lord Elrond decides that she will join the Fellowship and protect it from evil with her beauty and wisdom…I think it is time we tried another story."

The others waited as the young King of Rohan picked through another pile and cleared his throat.

" '… _and although she was a child of the Valar, she knew it not. Neither did the people around her, and she grew up quiet and with a wisdom beyond her years that often shone from her eyes. When she became angry, light would faintly glow about her person – a light that looked as though it were being forcibly subdued, too bright for mortal eyes. '_ "

"This sounds familiar," mused Gimli. "Do we not already have a few with the same story? I know we have at least one."

"Iridianna?" Arwen shook her head. "Nay – she has never claimed to be a child of the Valar."

" ' _Her name was_ —Ainu—Aina—Ai—" Éomer tossed the paper aside, gesturing at it hopelessly. "I cannot even pronounce this one. I give up."

Arwen picked it up gingerly and read it out in flawlessly bad Elvish. "Ainualindalondelalalaurequë Elenolothalion."

Silence descended upon the room.

"Does anyone wish to wager that the author had not the slightest inkling that she has given her female character a male surname?" ventured Faramir.

Gimli gave a derisive snort. "Or that there is no possible way that other Mortals would not notice that she becomes a human candle when she is angered?"

However, the Queen was tapping her fingers on the table in thought. "I wonder that Legolas did not bring the subject of this girl's name up earlier. Though he is not prone to mockery, he does love to laugh – how did this name escape mention?"

Gimli glanced at Arwen, a little more solemn. "He does not like to let much show, my Lady, for he fears being a burden to others, but he is…more preoccupied than usual. Of late he hasn't even had the energy to banter."

"Where is he?"

"I left him to his own devices today. He wished to have some time to himself, and for once I thought his decision rather wise."

Éomer shook his head and poured himself some ale. "Someone needs to keep an eye on that boy. He will not admit it – least of all to you, Gimli – but he needs you too keep him out of trouble. Without you I can see him finding himself in some odd situations, indeed."

OoO

Something snapped with Movie Legolas.

The real Legolas saw it. A split second was all it took, a slight shift in the facial features that were a mirror of his own, staring back at him.

The singing continued. Sweet, and lilting, and ear-piercing.

The real Legolas was used to it. It was annoying, the way it pulled at him and called him even as he felt horror and revulsion welling inside at the very idea – he had no need of a teenage Mortal wife. But he had become accustomed to all the serenading and theatrics.

Movie Legolas, on the other hand, was breathing heavily through his nostrils in a manner reminiscent of an angered bull. His fists were clenching at his sides, his eyes beginning to flash bright with fury.

Heart thumping in alarm, Legolas struggled to find a way to stop his filmic counterpart from doing something inconceivably stupid.

He planted his feet firmly in front of Movie Legolas, ensuring his face was the picture of stoic warriorhood.

"I know that look," he said sternly. "I know what it's like. I know how it pulls at you, how it hurts, how it threatens to overwhelm. I know the urge to simply put an end to the source of anguish. I have learned how to—how to no longer be influenced by it. I can help them now. You must resist it."

"I can't!" said Movie Legolas harshly.

"You must!" Legolas gripped him by the shoulders and was seized by the sudden urge to shake him. _My gods, I hope that this dramatic trait is restricted only to the other me._

"Tell me," hissed Movie Legolas through gritted teeth. "Which of us, in your reckoning, do the fanfiction authors write of the most often? The Legolas of the books? Or the Legolas of the movies?"

Legolas stood agape, still gripping the other Elf's shoulders. For once in his life he had no idea what to say to that.

A half-sob seemed torn out of Movie Legolas. "Believe me, _mellon nin_ , I have tried. I have tried to ignore it. I have almost walked to the ends of Middle-Earth trying to escape. But always they find me. I can never outrun them."

"But—"

"You do not understand, do you? I am burdened a thousand times over. More so than you, for they do not write of you with the same prolific energy. It is my face they see."

"But…why?" cried Legolas.

"Because they don't read books!" wailed Movie Legolas.

The singing rose in crescendo. Movie Legolas shook off Book Legolas with such violence that the latter reeled backwards.

"I have to put an end to this," he whispered, almost in apology.

"No—you can't—"

Legolas was left coughing in a cloud of dust as Movie Legolas raced down the street. He was quickly out of sight.

But not before Legolas was hit with some idea of what he was about to do. That mad light of battle, the murderous and un-Legolas-like rage that lent speed to his long legs—

He had to stop him before he slaughtered the lot of them.

He shook the torpor from his limbs and hurtled after Movie Legolas.

 _The Belain damn it!_ He cried internally, cursing his apparently horrible luck and sense of timing. _If this is what happens when I try to take a day off, I will not rest until the last ship sails to Aman!_

OoO

My thanks go to **chisscientist** for suggesting a child of the Valar whose mortal environment somehow doesn't recognise that they're most certainly not human, and to **Peregrin Took the Falcon** for the very long and unpronounceable Sue name! You're even better than making up names than I am, mellon nin.

Do leave a comment if you have the time! :)


	9. An Interlude With Gimli and Gertie

Bit of a filler chapter today - I had to break the whole chapter up again. Hopefully you guys don't mind! And hopefully I'll have the next part out soon. :D

 **Anonymous review replies:**

Ryanwe: Indeed, Éomer has thus far escaped attention – but perhaps not for long. *cue dramatic music* Let's see if we can work your ideas in at some point! I like the name suggestion. Thank you for your review! :)

anthi35: Did you yell, "PLOT TWIST!" at the screen when you found out? Please tell me you did. I'm glad you're enjoying it! Thanks for reviewing.

OoO

 **An Interlude With Gimli And Gertie (And A Few Others)**

Gimli stretched and let out a sigh as his bones creaked back into place. Much as he loved good company and good ale, sitting down for long periods of time was just not something he was built for.

He made his way through the Citadel and passed the Houses of Healing – which had suddenly found itself in need of more staff of late. Apprentices he had never seen before were hurrying past with various dubious-looking concoctions sloshing about in jars, or carrying basketfuls of herbs or clean linen.

Evidently this camping trip idea of the princeling's was not going to go ahead while a considerable portion of their guests were nursing injuries and ills of various kinds.

They were mostly ridiculous, too. Fracturing an arm singing. Hair growing in places it shouldn't after an injudiciously-applied amount of whatever some dodgy peddler had palmed off in the marketplace.

And acne. The kinds of pimples _normal_ young adults and teenaged Mortals often experienced. Not a lot – just enough to be noticeably different from the perfection they were all used to seeing in fanfiction characters.

Gimli frowned as he stopped in front of a window, through which the midday sun shone high and bright over the city. There was something Legolas was not telling, he was sure of it. Those few slight hints of normalcy trickling in were making him suspicious. Skin blemishes. Outfits that fit less well than usual. Mistakes in the practice yard. Some kind of change was taking place.

Yet every time Gimli mentioned it, Legolas seemed to go quiet or change the subject. His chatty Elvish friend would talk about anything given the chance. It was not usual for him to actively avoid talking like this.

Part of him reasoned that no one was required to lay bare their souls if they did not wish to. Which, of course, was true – he himself had plenty of things that he would rather not divulge (though on several occasions Legolas had somehow wheedled them out of him). But that was what stung. After all they had been through together, he was hurt that his closest friend had deliberately chosen to hide something from him. For they were brothers in heart; there were no secrets between them. Save this one.

It took Gimli a moment to realise that he was not alone. Not far away, the only short and imperfect guest they had was staring out of a window with a similar frown marring her pudgy features.

Gimli started at the sight of her. Gertie Jones was still in the dark denim breeches and black tunic with unreadable characters emblazoned on them in which they had found her, only now her state could only be called dishevelled at best and crawled-out-of-an-Orc-pit at worst. Mud was caked in her orange hair. A few large bruises flowered green and purple and yellow against her skin where evidently the practice yard had left its mark on her. Literally.

Her gaze flickered over to the Dwarf. "Hey, Gimli," she sighed.

"Erm…yo?" He winced even as he spoke. _Is that not how they greet one another? I don't know?_

Gertie gave a tired smile. "It's okay – you don't need to try and talk like one of us. Them. Me. I mean—gah." She threw her hands up in frustration, then looked at him apologetically. "I'm sorry. I feel like a snob if I don't lump myself in with them, but I feel almost…unwashed if I do."

The look on her face was one of surprise when Gimli burst out with a hearty chuckle. "I understand, lassie. I would not wish to…lump myself in with them either."

"I don't think it would suit you, anyway," replied Gertie, stroking her hairless face meaningfully. "The beard, you know."

They grinned at one another and then fell silent for a while, watching the tiny dots milling about in the city below. At some point the Dwarf felt the girl's eyes on him and, feeling uncomfortable, willed himself not to look. _This is the Elf's job. I know not how to even communicate with these people. Even if this one is_ – Gimli surreptitiously glanced at Gertie in his periphery – _not quite like the others._

"Um…Gimli?"

He had to look then. He cleared his throat. "Er, yes?" he said gruffly. He sincerely hoped whatever she had to ask of him was easily answerable. Much as he hated to admit it, when it came to dealing with their band of characters, he felt a little lost without Legolas. He tried to make his eyebrows look a little less intimidating and more solicitous, and had no idea what he looked like.

Gertie took a deep breath. "I need a bath."

"What?"

"I need a bath!" Gertie stamped her foot in a sudden display of temper and a drops of dried mud flew about her. Flushed with anger, she whipped around, clutching her muddy ponytail. "I _care_ about my hair. I want to smell nice again. I don't want to be bruised with a stick every day. I'm tired of being ordered around and barked at and given lessons on being normal. I'm as normal as they get. I'm not supposed to be here, I want to go home, and I JUST WANT A DAMN BATH!"

And she burst into tears.

Shocked into silence, Gimli stood stock-still as Gertie's loud, heartfelt wails echoed around the hallway. A few apprentices making their way past took one look at them and hurried on, evidently in a hurry to leave.

Slowly, hesitantly, Gimli edged closer. His rough Dwarven hand made its way to her shoulder, awkwardly trying a commiserating pat. "Erm – there, there. Do they not have bathing facilities at _The Whittled Wench_?"

"They do," wailed Gertie, wiping furiously at her eyes, "but they're constantly occupied by Isannaleebelle and her ilk. The only time they're free is when everyone's studying or out being drilled by Éowyn, and I'm always out with them!" She sniffled miserably.

Gimli fished about in his pocket and handed her his clean handkerchief. She eyed it for a moment before accepting the offer and none-too-quietly blowing her nose.

"Thanks."

"You are welcome, lass. Keep the handkerchief." Gimli paused for a moment, a sudden idea coming to him. "Come with me."

Evidently puzzled, Gertie wiped her eyes again and trailed after the Dwarf. Pausing outside one of the rooms, he poked his head in to check that it was empty. One of the ubiquitous apprentices was there, emptying a metal bowl of Mahal-knew-what out the window and humming the tune to a bawdy drinking song. He knocked, startling her.

The bowl _bwanged_ to the courtyard below. The apprentice cursed loudly before whipping around in anger. Her eyes widened at the sight of the by-now famous young Dwarf standing right in her doorway – and who must have heard her swearing.

"Y-yes, Master Gimli?" she stammered, dropping a shaky curtsey.

"If it would not trouble you at all," answered the Dwarf in what he hoped were soothing tones, "would it be possible to see to it that Gertie here has a bath drawn for her and that she is left undisturbed for the next hour?"

The apprentice nervously tucked a lock of brown hair behind her ear and twisted her hands. "Um…Master Legolas has asked all of us not to allow any of your – erm – guests access to the bath house unless their injuries prevent them from moving back to their lodgings."

Gimli raised a bushy eyebrow. "I'm sure he did, lass. But we are making an exception for this young lady, as access to her bathing facilities have unfortunately been denied recently."

"I—I'm sorry," breathed the poor apprentice, "but Master Legolas gave us the strictest—"

"Let me handle the princeling," interrupted Gimli sternly. "I will not have one of our guests drown in her own juices in the greatest city of the Men of the West for want of a bath. Now, if you will see it done, please? You will be in no trouble, I promise you."

"Yes, m'lord." She scurried out of the room, followed by the incredulous stare of Gertie. A moment later she stuck her head back into the room. "If you'll follow me, Miss Gertie? I will retrieve you some towels."

"How did you do it?" whispered Gertie in awed tones as they left the bath house.

"Celebrity status," answered Gimli, both pleased and embarrassed. They came to a halt. There was another awkward silence, in which Gimli felt acutely uncomfortable. Gertie eventually smiled and settled for a very manly smack of thanks that thumped into his back and knocked the wind out of him.

"Thanks, Gimli!"

Wheezing, he tried to catch his breath as he watched Gertie trailing up the hall. _Where in Sauron's seven hells is Legolas?! I have no idea what I'm doing!_

Footsteps sounded further up the hall. As if by Valar-summoning, the slim Elf in question strode purposefully around the corner, passing Gertie with a curt nod.

The look in his eyes was fire.

"Princeling! There you are!" exclaimed Gimli, setting aside the uncomfortable misgivings that crept onto the edges of his consciousness. The way his gut tightened told him that something was amiss.

"Indeed, Gimli. We have a mission that we must complete before sundown." Legolas' tones were clipped, his pace unyielding as Gimli struggled after him.

"Before sundown?" puffed Gimli. "I hope you have prepared for it! It is hardly midday – we have only hours!"

"I do not think it will take us long," answered Legolas smoothly, rounding a corner with enviable grace as Gimli staggered clumsily after. "We are already masterful in what this encounter requires."

"And what would that be?" demanded Gimli.

"Why, killing, _mellon nin_."

OoO

Aragorn had just had the oddest conversation with Legolas.

He'd said something about slaughtering a few annoying individuals before the day was out. When Aragorn had raised an eyebrow at that, Legolas had just given a mad laugh and continued on his way to the Citadel.

Legolas' idea of a jest was a little strange sometimes.

The High King's stomach suddenly rumbled in protest at the lack of breakfast this morning, and glancing upwards he found himself most fortuitously outside _The Whittled Wench_. Out of its dark wood doors the smell of frying eggs and bacon wafted temptingly.

For a moment, Aragorn hesitated. There would be a few crotchety old nobles who might find fault with him for entering a tavern with such a disreputable name. Of equal chance was that the sons of the same nobles would be happy to drop into the tavern regularly in hopes of seeing their High King there once discovered, and who would be no less happy to tell all their foppish friends that they frequented a tavern favoured by the High King himself.

And Erchon would probably not be unhappy with the regular custom of the bored young rich.

So into _The Whittled Wench_ went the High King Elessar of the Reunited Realms without a qualm, and feeling rather pleased with his choice not to dress very elegantly this morning.

No one would recognise him until later.

OoO

No one – except, that is, for Iridianna.

Of all her fellow travellers she was one of the only ones who had seen Aragorn up-close. Not under the nicest of circumstances, admittedly, but enough for her to recognise him.

Above the din and laughter her stomach tying itself in knots as she watched him make his way to the bar. Around her were other characters tripping over themselves to get the attention of off-duty lower city guards and the serving boys who scurried in and out with plates and cups. Iridianna's eyes were only for the High King, unrecognised by all else without his regal tunic and circlet.

This was it, she realised, heart racing with excitement. She would have the chance to speak to him now, properly, and with no competition. No throwing up, no fainting, no…whatever else. Just her, and the one man to whom destiny had entrusted her heart.

A breeze swept through the room a second time, hardly noticed in the crowded tavern. Her curiosity got the better of her and she reluctantly peeled her eyes away for a moment, leaning backwards to glance at the door.

A familiar-looking guard strode in, accompanied by several of his friends, all in uniform. Angrenir, Halbarad and a few others she hadn't met before. A gaggle of girls surged toward the newcomers, almost obscuring her view. Angrenir's eyes met hers over the tops of their heads.

Iridianna felt the strangest sensation. An urge, almost. Something that pushed her to drift deliberately past him, go right up to Halbarad and flirt with him in the same way that the other girls did. It shocked her, to think of flirting with someone who was not Aragorn. Strange, that her heart had gone astray for the first time since arriving here. Stranger still, that it seemed to have something to do with Angrenir. Why on earth would she want _his_ attention for? She hadn't even known that he existed before that encounter in the courtyard, and a few hurried conversations since.

Suddenly she remembered that Aragorn was in the room and all thoughts of the young guard vanished. She took a deep breath and began making her way over.

In the prickly innkeeper's hands was a goblet, which he seemed to be concentrating all too intently on as he murmured a few quiet words out of the corner of his mouth. Aragorn stood up abruptly at that, his gaze darting about sharply.

People milled about to obscure her view. Heart racing with fear and impatience, she stood on her tiptoes and tried to locate Aragorn. A flash of tunic here, dark hair there. "Excuse me," she murmured, pushing her way past tall Gondorian guards to the bar where her beloved King had been sitting only seconds ago.

He was gone.

"Iridianna?" A hesitant voice rose out of the chatter behind her. She turned. Angrenir stood over her, a smile playing over his lips. "I haven't seen you in a—"

"I'm so sorry, Angrenir," she interrupted, and tried to look apologetic. "I'm just not in the mood to talk today."

"Missed the King, did you?"

Iridianna felt her eyebrows shoot up. "H-how did you know he was here?"

"I have met him enough times to know him by sight." He raised a quizzical brow. "Has our High King captured your fancy, then? Indeed, you have set your sights high."

Iridianna stared at him for a moment. Anger coursed through her, sudden and inexplicable. He hardly knew her. How could he possibly know what she had thought or felt? She didn't even know herself. And she was humiliated.

"Don't mock me, Angrenir," was all she said, before she shoved past him and back through the crowd.

OoO

Thank you for reading! Please review, as usual. Cupcakes and cookies for all!


	10. Eyes of Wisdom

Well. My favourite USB stick – which has carried all my fic on it since 2009 – decided to die last week, taking every photo, every uni assignment, every WIP I've had in the pipeline for six years, and every new chapter I was working on. Including this one. So I had to re-write the entire thing all over again. Did I mention I lost _all_ my fic? :(

On the positive side, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies finally came out here in Australia and I absolutely loved it! 10/10 would recommend.

 **Anonymous review replies**

Ryanwe: Sauron's daughter will appear soon, I think! She makes a cameo in this chapter (spoiler alert) but the rest of her story will come later. And yeah, with all the drilling that Éowyn's giving them they definitely won't be able to keep up their perfect looks! Thank you for reviewing!

Anthi35: Ah, you shall find out the answer to that soon! I'm glad that you're shipping Iridianna/Angrenir. :P Thank you for the review!

OoO

 **Eyes of Wisdom**

Movie Legolas whistled to himself as he casually twirled an arrow about in one hand.

His cool blue gaze was fixed upon his first target, a daughter of Sauron, judging by the high-collared and dramatic purple dress and the heavy air of dark angst that lay over the room she had appropriated herself at _The Whittled Wench_. His forehead wrinkled as he tried to remember her name. Morefood, or something. No matter. Anyone whose existence at least half depended upon the dubious fertility of a flaming eyeball was not someone whose name he needed to remember, anyway.

Especially not when her demise was almost literally in his hands and pointed in her direction from the building in which he stood. It only awaited release.

Yet as he squinted down the length of his arrow, a pang of unexpected guilt gave him pause. Was this truly the right thing to do? The heat of his fury all but dissipated frighteningly as the words of his counterpart, barely heard at the time suddenly rushed into clarity. _I can help them now_ , he had said.

He hesitated.

Just long enough for Moodyfear or whatever her name was to turn in her room and suddenly see him, and that arrow trained upon her, and for her to gaze back in wordless horror.

And that was the last thing Movie Legolas remembered, for he then took a frypan to the head.

Standing behind him, breathing heavily, was Book Legolas with frypan still raised in shock. He glanced down with newfound respect at the weapon he clutched. "I must remember…to speak of the arts of war…with Master Samwise."

Behind him Gimli's snort was explosive. "You are more likely to get a recipe from a Hobbit than a decent discussion of weaponry." He lifted Movie Legolas' booted feet with a grunt. When he looked up, there was defiance in his gaze. "And speaking of weaponry, I still maintain that ten Dwarven axes will scythe down more Orcs than one thousand Elvish arrows."

"That's where you are wrong, _mellon nin_ ," answered Legolas lightly. He lifted up Movie Legolas's shoulders so that he was comically swinging between them. They began an awkward shuffle out of the room. "That matter was settled in the great contest of the First Age, where the Dwarves of Khăzad-Dum and the Teleri who lingered upon the Anduin—"

"Bah!" Their voices echoed up the hallway in playful banter. "Your accent is shocking, Princeling. Say _Moria_ rather than _Khăzad-Dum_ if you wish, but sully not the Dwarven tongue with your terrible Sindarin."

OoO

Movie Legolas did not remain unconscious for long, of course.

A dull throb was pulsing in the back of his fair head when he awoke, and as he opened one eye then the other with a groan, his blurry gaze registered the presence of the other Legolas, a short thing that had to be Gimli, and a tall figure he assumed was probably Aragorn.

He went to rub his eyes and found, to his annoyance, that one of his hands was bound to that of a stern-looking stone king that loomed over his chair. He heaved a sigh.

"I have no words."

"You need not, my friend." Aragorn strode over and sat down across from him affably.

Book Legolas glanced at the door. "Excuse me."

Movie Legolas followed the other Legolas with distrustful gaze as the latter rose and stuck his head outside the door. Instantly a chorus of chirping, scuttling, twittering and human squeeing burst into hearing.

Movie Legolas looked across at Aragorn incredulously. The King gave a rueful smile. "I think some of them have decided that their not-quite-human friends should have a look-in."

"Their what?"

"Well, word has spread that there are two of you. I doubt they could resist."

" _Mellyn_ ," said Book Legolas melodiously, his voice carrying clearly despite the cacophony. "May I remind you to keep any animal companions you may possess out-of-doors? They do make a frightful noise and by now, with all your training, I expect better of you than to traipse about the city with them. Unless that squirrel over there is bred for battle I suggest you take it elsewhere."

Amid loud protestations the heavy door slammed woodenly into the silence.

Aragorn cleared his throat. "So, Legolas here has told me of his meeting with you, and your intention to essentially slaughter all our guests." There was no judgement in his tone; only a neutral repetition of facts.

Movie Legolas' face burned with both anger and sheer embarrassment, but he said nothing for a while. For him to have allowed his fury to overrun his good sense…and yet, how could he have done otherwise? How could he have expected to retain his sanity in the face of so many romantic pursuits that he had never consented to?

Eventually he let out a sigh and looked away. "It is rare for me to have any respite from these creatures with their long hair and honed skill in battle and perfect singing voices – perhaps even more rare than it is for my…twin, over there." He pointed vaguely with the hand bound to the statue. "I was seized today with a most terrible rage. It is not in my nature – that is to say, I was not aware that my spirit could even possess such anger."

"Few of us are, 'til we are put to the test," said Book Legolas softly, unusually sober.

"In any case, I was wrong." Movie Legolas bowed his head. " _Goheno nin._ "

"Of course you are forgiven," said Aragorn, reaching out to clasp the Elf's arm. The latter looked up hesitantly, and only seeing honesty in the eyes of Isildur's Heir, returned his unspoken offer with an equally strong grip.

And thus was a friendship born between Aragorn Elessar and an Elf from another dimension.

The sobriety of the moment passed rather quickly when Unggh's bumpy grey head suddenly appeared at the window, darkening the room.

"MAN KING!" he boomed, and waved his huge hand around in enthusiastic greeting.

"Er…greetings, Unggh of the Troll-folk." To Book Legolas, he quietly said, "Fetch Iorlas, will you? Annoyed he will almost certainly be, for this is possibly the tenth time he has managed to escape his stable, but we cannot have him just roaming the city." He paused. "I hope his presence has not been a menace to our poor citizens."

 _Film montage of various episodes of Unggh stumbling across a clothes line and eating undergarments, chasing a group of screaming children because he wants to play chasey, and finally a sheepish Unggh standing alone in an empty marketplace which he has accidently destroyed in his enthusiasm._

"Oh, I doubt it. He is quite tame." Book Legolas smiled happily and then set off to do the King's bidding.

Aragorn waited until he left, then turned to Movie Legolas, leaning forward with elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped. "I have not the slightest clue how we will send you back to wherever your Middle-Earth is. For that, I must apologise."

Movie Legolas waved a hand. "Do not trouble yourself. I am sure I will be offered the chance to find my way back when my part is done."

"I admire your optimism, but how do you know?"

The Elf smiled for the first time since he had arrived, dimples suddenly transforming his solemn features. "I have been in stories like this before. Now, if it would not trouble you—" He tugged at his bound hand pointedly and his eyebrow arched. "—I have no wish to be handfasted with a past King of Gondor, and my heart tells me that his wife may protest."

Perhaps he was not so unlike Legolas after all.

OoO

 _Karliah McKirkfitzgeraldpatrick was seventeen, yet while quite young, people often saw that wisdom blazed from her eyes like a—_

"Alright. Let us pause a moment." Faramir steepled his fingers, leaning on the desk, while a young woman with strawberry blonde hair squirmed in mingled embarrassment and annoyance. "Firstly, a good story does not begin by expounding upon the virtues of the character straight away."

Karliah folded her arms. "And why not?" she demanded.

It was a good thing that Faramir son of Denethor was a patient man.

"Because a reader wants to discover why they should like the character for themselves," explained Faramir gently. "A list of qualities such as this belongs more to the crier in the marketplace selling his wares, rather than to a writer painting a picture for his reader. No one wishes to be forced to love someone, especially not when they are but a shallow collection of attributes thrown together."

Karliah looked unconvinced.

"Let me put it this way. What would you say to a person who strode up to you one day and announced, 'I am Éowyn, and I am skilled with the sword, and it is said that my beauty is as the lily of the field, and wisdom doth sit upon my brow—"

"You know it does," came a disembodied voice floating down from the second tier of the library, and Faramir could not help a chuckle at his wife's good hearing. _I truly must take care to watch my tongue_ , he thought.

Across from him Karliah scowled. "Yeah, but how _am_ I supposed to introduce myself to Middle-Earth? How are people going to know who I am?"

"That is the entire point of telling a story. Slow discoveries are the best ones." He frowned. "Also, how exactly does wisdom blaze from one's eyes? Would it not be difficult to see with all that wisdom in the way?"

In response, Karliah raised her head. A pensive look settled over her features, and the dark green of her eyes suddenly burned with a bright white light. Unseen voices chorused in the background to complete the moment.

Faramir stared for a long moment before giving a cough.

"Er, Karliah – this sort of thing cannot be done with your eyes without burning them out of your sockets. There is nothing in our world which makes it possible for a human being to do that. And quite frankly it is beyond terrifying."

"But—"

"And," Faramir continued, "to be honest, you have demonstrated little of the wisdom you claim to have. If your wisdom is really just an excuse to 'look cold', as you people put it, then it is likely that the trait should disappear altogether."

"It's ' _look cool'_!"

"Your assignment will be to re-write…" He tried his hardest not to let out a sigh. "…the _first_ sentence of your story. If in this you do well, I will report your progress to Legolas, and the quicker you are able to advance, the quicker you will able to go home."

He rose, indicating that it was time for Karliah to leave, too. Silently, she stood up, and made her way to the door. Hesitating, her fingers lingering on the latch, she turned. The oddest expression was on her face.

"I don't know if I want to leave," she said, quietly. "It's…nice here. Less complicated, and cleaner. I could get used to living without the internet, eventually."

And Faramir watched her leave.

There was a sound, and raising his head he found his lady wife Éowyn almost skipping down the stairs leading up to the next tier. He smiled to see her so childlike – moments like these were rather rare. She perched herself on the edge of the desk and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"You are far more patient with them than I am, I confess," she said. "I keep bruising them without meaning to."

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you perfectly certain that you do not mean to?"

Éowyn had the grace to look abashed, and Faramir laughed.

"Another question I would ask of you, shieldmaiden," he said as he rose and they left the library. "What in Middle-Earth is an _internet_?"

Apologies that this chapter was slightly late, and a little short – again, I blame the big USB stick debacle! Thank you for reading, and if you have time to drop me a review, it won't go unappreciated!


	11. All That Is Old Should Not Glitter

Big thank yous to all you lovely readers, and for all the reviews and condolences on the loss of my USB stick. Lest we forget.

By the way, I've started publishing another LotR fic called _Farseeing_ – if you're bored between updates go check it out!

 **Anonymous review replies**

Anthi35: Thank you! Super glad that you're enjoying this. I feel sorry for inflicting Karliah and her ignorance upon Faramir but…well, it's what parodies are about, right? Thanks for reviewing!

Guest: Thank you, I'm really pleased that you like it! Yes, I decided to give the Sues some personality – which is a little different, I think, given that Sues don't usually have personalities. Maybe it's a sign that they're beginning to change? I don't know. Interpret that one however you want! And thank you for the review. :D

OoO

 **All That Is Old Should Not Glitter**

Of course, nobody told Movie Legolas what the sleeping arrangements would be.

With the result that when Book Legolas woke him with a cheerful _mae govannen_ he found a very sore and tired Elf nestled in the cushions on Gimli's floor, groaning in response.

"Did you not sleep well, _mellon nin_?" he asked, concerned.

"I wish I could say that I did, but at the risk of appearing less grateful than I am I must say no." Movie Legolas looked to be rather in pain as he sat up stiffly and stretched. Legolas was sure he could almost hear the Elf creaking.

"My mind seems to have been elsewhere last night, so I may have to ask you why we are sharing the Dwarf's sleeping quarters again."

"Ah. The explanation is both simple and highly embarrassing." Legolas moved towards the window and threw aside the heavy, richly embroidered curtains. Sunlight streamed into the room. Movie Legolas flinched and hissed. "Some of our guests have not yet learned that it is an ignoble thing to break into an _ellon_ 's bedchambers, and some of them have arrived with an inexplicable ability to scale walls."

He paused meaningfully.

Movie Legolas shot him a sceptical look. "Scaling walls?"

"They have the ability to influence our very emotions and stir love where none should be," Legolas pointed out, walking across the room to place a delicately-wrought candleholder back onto its shelf. "They have all sorts of talents that no real teenaged Mortal from a sheltered world would possess. Are you really so surprised that one of them might be to climb the outside wall of a tower and break into one's rooms?"

"And that is why we must sleep in Gimli's quarters, I suppose."

He gave a merry smile. "Precisely why we must sleep in Gimli's quarters. No one has yet attempted to look for me here, and if they did, the first person they would find would be our short, bearded and slightly flatulent friend in there." He gestured vaguely in the direction of the Dwarf's room.

Snorting as he rose to his feet, Movie Legolas replied, "I heard you last night. I do not think that Gimli is the flatulent one."

Legolas could feel heat rising to his cheeks. He turned away. "I have digestive troubles," he mumbled.

"I will say no more about it, then," said Movie Legolas, all politeness except for the mischievous glint in his sky-blue eyes. "Come, let us travel in search of breakfast."

Together, they made their way down several corridors and headed towards a courtyard that they had to cross before arriving at the Hall in which everyone shared the morning meal.

"What will you have me do this morning?" asked Movie Legolas. "Can I be of assistance in any way?"

"I would have you rest, I think," answered Legolas with a smile, "and to try and help the King in whatever way he deems suitable. If our guests saw that there were two of us, I believe that poor Faramir will find himself struggling with the ensuing piles of Love At First Sight and Angst tales."

"You raise a good point."

"Indeed. And at this point—"

Legolas almost slammed into his Movie counterpart, who had frozen stock-still in shock outside the door. He peered over his shoulder.

Before them, the entire courtyard was shimmering beneath a fine film of glitter.

OoO

"Apparently we're going on this camping trip to see what it's really like, and Aragorn—um, King Elessar, won't be there."

Outside the barracks near Legolas' training quarters, Iridianna dejectedly leaned with her elbows over a wall that overlooked one of the lower levels of the city. Around her and Angrenir guards and sleepy OCs milled and yawned and grumbled their way into the morning. Angrenir tossed an apple core over the side and took out a water canteen to wash his hands.

"Why should the King be there? He has many duties of his own to attend to. All kings do."

"Yeah, but he's a Ranger!" She flung an arm out in frustration. "Isn't camping kind of his thing?"

"He _was_ a Ranger. He is High King of the Reunited Realms now. He does enjoy a camping trip every so often, but pressing matters of state will not wait for him to finish traipsing about in the woods." He gave her a quizzical look. "Why should you mind whether or not he attends your trip? There will be much to do and much to enjoy even without the presence of our noble Lord."

"You know why," she mumbled, embarrassed. She reached for her hip pocket for her phone – seemingly for the thousandth time since she had arrived – before remembering that she had no hip pocket and no phone to check. She gave a huff of frustration. Awkward moments were so much more difficult to surmount when there was nothing to fidget with.

That purple fungus of teleportation certainly hadn't told her that she'd need to talk to ordinary people as well as the famous ones from Middle-Earth. And especially not that she'd end up talking to a guard about her Valar-ordained destiny to be with Aragorn forever.

A frown formed on Angrenir's face as he evidently struggled to process the information. "I do know why," he said, "but Iridianna – can you not see that it is wrong? King Elessar and Queen Arwen Undómiel are bound together by the doom of Lúthien and Beren, by a bond that takes them beyond life on these shores and sets them upon the journey of whatever fate awaits we Mortal Men. None may interfere with that. Even were one successful in the attempt, it is beyond my power to know what kind of wrath, what kind of misery, such a thing would invite."

"But Galadriel told me from her visions that _I'm_ the one who's supposed to have that fate." She shook her head. "I'm starting to be less and less convinced that it's true, but—"

Suddenly a fog of glittering pink haze seemed to descend over her sight. Tears of determination welled in her eyes. She was vaguely aware of herself saying, "But we will find a way! True love conquers all." Melodramatically, she clutched at her heart with one hand, the other reaching out towards the sun.

And an explosion of pink and purple glitter rained upon them.

For a moment Angrenir stared at her through the fall, and a slow, sad smile tugged at his lips. "There are times when you almost begin to make sense," he murmured. "Yet for all that, you still know not what love truly is." He shook his head. After a moment he looked down at his arm and frowned at the shimmering pink that dusted it. In puzzlement he rolled some glitter between his thumb and forefinger. "What in the name of Elendil is this?"

"The essence of love and purity," said Iridianna breathily. One corner of her shouted through the pink haze, _This isn't right!_ More and more often of late she found herself splitting into two different people, and somehow being aware of both. One was the Chosen of the Valar, the Tenth Walker, the Companion of the Future King; and this one was sure of herself and her footsteps and her destiny. The other was very teenaged, very confused, frightened, and completely unsure of who or what she was, or whether she was even real. And this other one felt like talking to Angrenir seemed to be one of the only things that really brought her out.

"Well, I think that I have had enough love and purity for one day," declared Angrenir in what sounded like resignation. He dusted off the helmet tucked beneath his arm and gave up when the effort to remove the glitter proved too difficult. "When is this camping trip to occur?"

"Tomorrow, at dawn, upon the Day of Destiny," answered the Chosen One side of Iridianna wisely. Her Less Chosen side cringed at the choice of words, and at the idea of being up at such an unholy hour.

"Alright. If I do not see you before then, I wish you all the best of luck." He paused for a moment, opening his mouth as if he were going to say something else, then shook his head. "Fare you well for now."

"Until the Valar should bring us together," she answered as he turned to hasten to his duties.

Iridianna watched him go before she let a beam of light shine upon her and posed a few times while further up the wall a handsome male OC with glossy brown hair did the same. He stopped, very suddenly, a confused look on his face, before wandering off.

The pink haze over her vision lifted with a suddenness that left her reeling. All thoughts of destiny and Aragorn and saving Middle-Earth took flight. Shakily, she raised a hand to her face and found that her skin tone was not as even – something that seemed to be happening more and more every time she switched personalities. Steadying herself against the wall, she gripped the white stone, breathing hard.

"What is this?" she whispered.

OoO

"What is this?" demanded Éomer, storming past her and bursting into the practice area. Glitter flew and swirled about his feet as he crossed the compact dirt of the yard. "Legolas, know you what this stuff is?"

"Glitter, of course!" Legolas happily threw a handful into the air.

"Will you stop that, Thranduillion?" sighed Éomer, waving a hand to try and clear the shower of pink away. "Even now, several Haradric officials sit in the Council Hall wearing looks of varying revulsion and amusement, as well as this terribly-coloured dust. Have you not seen Aragorn's face this morning? I see no reason to keep throwing it around. I—no!" He flapped his arm and scared away a singing bluebird who was trying to use his shoulder as a perch. "What _is_ this?!"

"What you do not know, Éomer-King, is that this is a good sign indeed." Unperturbed, Legolas reached out and yanked a squealing young lady with natural green highlights out of the crowd. "Riannabelle here is beginning to make sense." His fair Elven face near glowed with excitement. "Observe you this. How fares the morning, Riannabelle?"

The girl in question stared at him, startled, before stammering an answer. "Uh—it's—it's good, but I'm really sore."

"And why is that?"

"Um… because fencing all day is really hard? Especially when you're a schoolkid who doesn't even know how to fence?" Her shoulders slumped tiredly. "To be honest, I'm completely knackered."

Legolas turned to Éomer with shining eyes. "See? There is _logic_ right here. Not three days ago Riannabelle would have confidently believed that she could swing a sword about all day and hardly break a sweat. And now look at her!"

A couple of pimples that were on Riannabelle's left temple suddenly disappeared and a faraway look appeared in her eyes. Her features became subtly more beautiful, her eyes more exotically shaped. She suddenly saw who was standing next to her and she blushed becomingly. Pearls and sparkles bloomed like flowers around her. "Oh, Lord Legolas," she breathed, "I—"

"Off you go, Riannabelle!" said Legolas hurriedly, steering her in the direction of the wooden staves that Éowyn would train them with in a few minutes.

"I remain unconvinced," said Éomer flatly. "This does not explain the glitter."

"Did you see how the girl appeared to have two different personalities? Two different appearances?"

"Aye, and it was among the most disturbing things I have ever seen, and I have faced Orcs uglier than the dead."

"Set aside your morbid comparisons for a moment and listen," implored Legolas. He made an expansive gesture. "When you look at these young men and women, you see perfection, glory, peerless beauty. You have heard about their tragic backgrounds, written to invoke sympathy from their love interests and new friends, when a good love or friendship should not be based upon pity. You see traits that in the real world would label them as annoying and which in their stories have been written as charming or amusing. You see them being needlessly hated or inexplicably loved for things which to our eyes appear rather small. Or just plain odd."

Éomer nodded, long blond hair shedding bits of glitter. "You mean jealousy over their beauty, or love for the wisdom shining in their multi-coloured eyes."

"Precisely. What you see, despite the lengthy descriptions and interesting appearances, is a complete lack of personality. All of this – it is an expression of a substanceless personality being released as energy in the form of glitter. Our friend Movie Legolas explained that he has experienced it several times before," he added.

"So what you are saying is that they are slowly changing, and this glitter is simply a by-product?"

"Yes! As the dried blood of a wound is the sign that healing has begun to take place, so is today's unusually shimmery landscape."

"It is still a little sad to see this mighty, ancient city being debased by such gaudiness, though," said Éomer, glancing around. "These hallowed stones should not lie beneath a cloud of…Mary Sue discharge."

"I would not fret too much if I were you, _mellon_ ," answered Legolas, clapping the King of Rohan on the shoulder as they left the yard. "Those clouds gathering upon the horizon are dark with the promise of rain. The stones will wash away the residue in no time. And," he added, grinning happily, "it will make the ground quite slushy - just in time for tomorrow's Camping In The Wild training."

* * *

Apologies that this chapter was slightly late, and a little short – again, I blame the big USB stick debacle! Thank you for reading, and if you have time to drop me a review, it definitely won't go unappreciated. :)


	12. That's Not What He Meant

Gosh, I'm so sorry for the delay getting this chapter out! My muse left me for a bit on this one. But the good news is that I've managed to update this fic AND my other LotR WIP at the same time. :D

*cough* **It's called Farseeing, go read it.** *cough* Go read it, for serious. Please? Reviewers will be generously showered with cookies.

 **Anonymous review replies**

Guest: Haha! Well, Sues aren't really known for having any personality, sooo…maybe that's why they don't get shown in many other stories? The Sues are starting to get personalities as they become less Sue-y. :) Thank you for your lovely words!

Anthi35: I wish I'd been able to make your request to update soon a reality! I hope this chapter will make up for it. :) Thank you for your review.

Kath: I'm glad you like it! Thank you!

OoO

 **That's Not What He Meant When He Said "Boot Camp"**

Legolas' prediction concerning the weather came true – and it was probably because he had weird Elven voodoo powers of prophecy. Or so his devoted followers believed. It began raining mid-afternoon and didn't stop until a half-Maia girl climbed atop the battlements at around midnight and screamed at the clouds to "GO AWAY!"

Oddly enough, it actually worked, much to Aragorn's amusement and Legolas' dismay. He would need to find a way to stop all the magic-workers in his program from…well, working magic. There was one way, he supposed, but—

He gritted his teeth against the idea. Not yet. Surely he could find a way to keep _it_ alive and well whilst still sundering those members of his training group from their very much non-Middle-Earth-compatible talents.

Well, that was a matter to be dealt with another time. Today was the beginning of Camping in the Wild. A smile spread across his features. A chance to finally escape into nature, feeling the deep thrumming of the earth beneath his feet, walking through his beloved trees. He loved camps!

Apparently not everyone was as eager as he was to go slushing around the Pelennor Fields dragging heavy bedrolls and supplies on their backs, though.

For starters, the day dawned strangely. The aforementioned half-Maia (her name was Flamedancer) was of almost insufferable good cheer and in her world the skies always reflected it back with brilliant blue and endless sunshine. Bellowing at the clouds the night before had ensured that every cloud had dispersed.

However, the emo girl Ashlee Assassination of 2007 had other plans. It turned out that she was an "elemental magick witch!1" and, though she had little control of her unexpected powers at all, her teenage angstfests over anything that looked too happy were enough to bring on a sudden cessation of sunshine and the coming of deep night.

Confused, Flamedancer sang forth the daylight and the sun again, summoning it from behind the clouds and dispersing them with the power of Maia Magic. This state of affairs lasted approximately thirty seconds before a keening wail arose in response and gloomy grey rolled in to blanket the sky.

The denizens of Minas Tirith glanced up uncertainly at the odd weather, suddenly unsure as to whether they were supposed to be out of bed or not. Howls of outrage at disturbed beauty sleep poured out of _The_ _Whittled Wench_ , swiftly bringing down the wrath of Erchon the prickly innkeeper.

The sun bounced up and down in the sky ridiculously; clouds swam in and out; night followed day over and over within minutes. And ethereal singing warred with screamed _Escape the Fate_ lyrics to the point that the King of Rohan finally lost his temper.

Legolas hurried after Éomer as soon as it was mentioned that he had left, and found the tall Rohir holding both Flamedancer and Ashlee at sword-point in the middle of a street. Right behind the King stood Erchon, clutching two-handed his fearsome candlestick as a weapon.

(He was an innkeeper. That candlestick was pretty well the only weapon he needed, and it was mostly used to round up rowdy drunks.)

"Éomer." Legolas' voice was deliberately calm.

"What?" hissed the King of Rohan. His arm was nearly quivering.

"These are my guests. You must—"

"I have had enough of your guests, Thranduillion. They have no propriety, they keep everyone awake at all hours of the night, and now they are beginning to change the weather only because they can."

It was a pretty bad start to the morning.

The other thing was the boots. Everyone had been issued with boots by Lord Legolas himself upon assessment, and everyone had forgotten about them until this morning, when they all started hauling them out from under their beds.

Notwithstanding the nascent beginnings of common sense and actual character development that Legolas had been seeing in his guests recently, several of the girls – and a few of the guys with a fabulous flair for fashion – began to loudly complain.

"Not _brown_! Ewwwww!11!"

"But these don't go with my sparkly tunic!"

"OMG THESE BUCKLES ARE HIDEOUS!"

Clearly it was necessary for Legolas to kindly remind everybody that an expedition into the wild would result in their clothes – including the boots – being spattered with dirt and mud. So perhaps it was fortunate that they had not been issued with anything fancier.

There was a grumbling consensus, and with that, preparations were underway.

OoO

As Faramir came hurrying down from the Citadel with Iorlas and a few other guards in tow, he reflected with a frown that he hadn't done much camping since he became Prince of Emyn Arnen. There were a lot of things, in fact, that he hadn't done since becoming Prince of Emyn Arnen. Uncertainty gripped him as he realised that during the long nights he would be protected only by a thin flap of tent material from the squeeing hordes.

"Aragorn says it would be best for me to accompany you," he said resignedly when he reached the inn. Legolas happily clasped his arm.

"I am glad. Do not look so forlorn. Your wife will be with us, after all."

Faramir made a face of mock horror and Éowyn swatted at his arm in passing. "Behave," she said warningly.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her close. "Make me," he replied nonchalantly, kissing her temple. Letting her go, he watched as the mayhem around him began to slowly settle into some kind of organised pattern.

The sight was an amusing one. Scowling and sulking, characters slowly slouched down the steps of the _The Whittled Wench_ , already looking as though they had been hiking for days. Among them was Isannaleebelle Jones/Pithien the Tall, flipping her golden hair haughtily and huffing as she tried to get her admittedly ill-fitting tunic to sit in a manner that would show her figure to the best advantage. Her sister Gertie looked uncommonly smug.

Bill-Galad the Elven king (of whom the harpers hardly sing) was wailing woefully and strumming his lyre in demonstration of his displeasure. He was wandering here and there, occasionally letting out riffs that scared flocks of city pigeons off the road. The camp did seem to be providing some new song matter, however, and his wordless song eventually ended up gaining some lyrics.

" _Into the dust and wild he went_

 _And trailed about with all his folk_

 _And everywhere he went they sang,_

' _It's Bill-Galad the Elven bloke!'_ "

Among those who looked less annoyed about camping and even excited about the possibility of showing off their mad skillz were Karliah McKirkfitzgeraldpatrick and a girl whom Faramir hadn't worked with much yet. He believed her name might have been something like…Skumly? Skyful?

" _Skyelight Josephine Liríel Andromeda Galadriliel!" cried Éomer, watching in horror and clutching at his heart as the girl gracefully fell to the ground. The arrow that pierced her shoulder might well have pierced his own heart._

 _Around her was a pile of dead Orcs. She had fought bravely._

 _He fell to his knees beside her. "Oh, Skyelight Josephine Liríel Andromeda Galadriliel!" he sobbed, using her full title out of loveitude and loveiness._

" _Oh, Éomer!"_

" _I should have protected you," he whispered, cradling her head in his lap and letting hot tears flow down his manly face. "I should have saved you."_

" _You already have," she replied with a wan smile. "With you I have known such joy. Remember that night at the waterfall, where all barriers and clothing between us melted away as the winter snows and I first knew what it was to be a woman as your —"_

Faramir couldn't help a grin. It probably wouldn't be wise to let his volatile brother-in-law know what activities he had apparently managed to get up to with this Skyelight person.

His warrior's reflexes suddenly tensed just in time for him to duck from an explosion of glitter. In a bizarre transformation a leanly-muscled young man nearby deflated (almost with audible raspberry noises) into a skinny teenaged boy.

"What—" he began in shock before Legolas cut him off.

"Impressive, is it not? The more of those explosions the better."

An hour later, a rather gloomy cavalcade headed by Legolas, Faramir, Gimli and Éowyn trooped out of the looming gates of Minas Tirith. The mud that feet sank into as soon as they set foot outside the city caused no small amount of despairing shrieks, which Legolas cheerily ignored as the open sky and rolling fields beckoned him.

"Did I mention I love camps?"

OoO

Apologies that this chapter was kind of on the short side!

My little sorting hat chose Yuki Suou's magnificently-named Sue Skyelight Josephine Liríel Andromeda Galadriliel Rogers for this chapter. You go, Yuki!

Thank you for reading, and if you have time to drop me a review, it definitely won't go unappreciated. :)


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